The Gate House

CHAPTER ONE

A week had passed since my return from London, and I was sitting at the table in the dining room of the small gatehouse of Stanhope Hall, my ex-wife’s former estate, wading through old files, family photos, and letters that I’d stored here for the last decade.

After my divorce from Susan, I’d fulfilled an old dream by taking my sailboat, a forty-six-foot Morgan ketch named the Paumanok II, on a sail around the world, which lasted three years. Paumanok, incidentally, is the indigenous Indian word for Long Island, and my illustrious ancestor, Walt Whitman, a native Long Islander, sometimes used this word in his poetry – and if Uncle Walt had owned a forty-six-foot yacht, I’m sure he’d have christened it the Paumanok, not “I Hear America Singing,” which is too long to put on the stern, or Leaves of Grass, which doesn’t sound seaworthy.

Anyway, my last port of call was Bournemouth, England, from which my other distant ancestors, the Sutters, had set sail for America three centuries before.

With winter coming on, and sea fatigue in my bones, a dwindling bank account, and my wanderlust satisfied, I sold the boat for about half what it was worth and moved up to London to look for a job, eventually signing on with a British law firm that needed an American tax lawyer, which is what I was in New York before I became captain of the Paumanok II.

I spread out some photos of Susan on the table and looked at them under the light of the chandelier. Susan was, and probably still is, a beautiful woman with long red hair, arresting green eyes, pouty lips, and the perfect body of a lifelong equestrian.

I picked up a photo that showed Susan on my first sailboat, the original Paumanok, a thirty-six-foot Morgan, which I loved, but which I’d scuttled in Oyster Bay Harbor rather than let the government seize it for back taxes. This photo was taken, I think, in the summer of 1990 somewhere on the Long Island Sound. The photograph showed a bright summer day, and Susan was standing on the aft deck, stark naked, with one hand covering her burning bush, and the other covering one breast. Her face shows an expression of mock surprise and embarrassment.

The occasion was one of Susan’s acted-out sexual fantasies, and I think I was supposed to have climbed aboard from a kayak, and I’d discovered her alone and naked and made her my sex slave.

The woman had not only a great body, but also a great imagination and a wonderful libido to go with it. As for the sexual playacting, its purpose, of course, was to keep the marital fires burning, and it worked well for almost two decades because all our infidelities were with each other. At least that was the understanding, until a new actor, don Frank Bellarosa, moved in next door.

I picked up a bottle of old cognac that I’d found in the sideboard and topped off my coffee cup.

The reason I’ve returned to America has to do with the former residents of this gatehouse, George and Ethel Allard, who had been old Stanhope family retainers. George, a good man, had died a decade ago, and his wife, Ethel, who is not so nice, is in hospice care and about to join her husband, unless George has already had a word with St. Peter, the ultimate gatekeeper. “Wasn’t I promised eternal rest and peace? Can’t she go someplace else? She always liked hot weather.” In any case, I am the attorney for Ethel’s estate and so I needed to take care of that and attend her funeral.

The other reason I’ve returned is that this gatehouse is my legal U.S. address, but unfortunately, this house is about to pass into the hands of Amir Nasim, an Iranian gentleman who now owns the main house, Stanhope Hall, and much of the original acreage, including this gatehouse. As of now, however, Ethel Allard has what is called a life estate in the gatehouse, meaning she has a rent-free tenancy until she dies. This rent-free house was given to her by Susan’s grandfather, Augustus Stanhope (because Ethel was screwing Augustus way back when), and Ethel has been kind enough to allow me to store my things here and share her digs whenever I’m in New York. Ethel hates me, but that’s another story. In any case, Ethel’s tenancy in this house and on this planet is about to end, and thus I had returned from London not only to say goodbye to Ethel, but also to find a new home for my possessions, and find another legal U.S. address, which seems to be a requirement for citizenship and creditors.

This is the first time I’d been to New York since last September, coming in from London as soon as the airplanes were flying again. I’d stayed for three days at the Yale Club, where I’d maintained my membership for my infrequent New York business trips, and I was shocked at how quiet, empty, and somber the great city had become.

I’d made no phone calls and saw no one. I would have seen my daughter, Carolyn, but she had fled her apartment in Brooklyn right after 9/11 to stay with her mother in Hilton Head, South Carolina. My son, Edward, lives in Los Angeles. So for three days, I walked the quiet streets of the city, watching the smoke rising from what came to be known as Ground Zero.

Heartsick and drained, I got on a plane and returned to London, feeling that I’d done the right thing, the way people do who come home for a death in the family.

Over the next few months, I learned that I knew eleven people who’d died in the Twin Towers; mostly former neighbors and business associates, but also a close friend who left a wife and three young children.

And now, nine months after 9/11, I was back again. Things seemed to have returned to normal, but not really.

I sipped my coffee and cognac and looked around at the piles of paper. There was a lot to go through, and I hoped that Ethel would hold on a while longer, and that Mr. Nasim wasn’t planning on getting his encumbered gatehouse into his possession the minute Ethel’s life tenancy expired. I needed to speak to Mr. Nasim about that; speaking to Ethel about hanging on until I tidied up my papers might seem insensitive and selfish.

Because the night was cool, and because I didn’t have a paper shredder, I had a fire going in the dining room fireplace. Now and then, I’d feed the fire with some letter or photo that I wouldn’t want my children to see if I suddenly croaked.

In that category were these photos of their mother whose nakedness revealed a lot more about her head than about her body. Susan was, and I’m sure still is, a bit nutty. But to be honest, I didn’t mind that at all, and that wasn’t the source of our marital problems. Our problem, obviously, was Susan’s affair with the Mafia don next door. And then to complicate things further, she shot and killed him. Three shots. One in the groin. Ouch.

I gathered the photos and turned in my chair toward the fireplace. We all have trouble parting with things like this, but I can tell you, as a lawyer and as a man, no good can come of saving anything you wouldn’t want your family or your enemies to see. Or your next significant other, for that matter.

I stared into the fire and watched the flames dancing against the soot-blackened brick, but I held on to the photos.

So, she shot her lover, Frank “the Bishop” Bellarosa, capo di tutti capi, boss of all bosses, and got away with it – legally, at least – due to some circumstances that the Justice Department found mitigating and extenuating.

Fact is, the Justice Department took a dive on the case because they’d made the mistake of allowing Mrs. Sutter unobstructed access to don Bellarosa, who was under house arrest in his villa down the road, and who was also singing his black heart out to them, and thus needed to be kept happy with another man’s wife.

I’m still a little pissed off at the whole thing, as you might guess, but basically I’m over it.

Meanwhile, I needed to decide if this trip was a death vigil, or perhaps something more permanent. I had kept up with my CLE – continuing legal education – and I was still a member of the New York State Bar, so I hadn’t burned all my bridges, and theoretically I was employable here. In my last life, I had been a partner in my father’s old firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, still located at 23 Wall Street, a historic building that was once bombed by Anarchists at the turn of the last century, which seems almost quaint in light of 9/11.

For the last seven years in London, I’d worked for the aforementioned British law firm, and I was their American tax guy who explained that screwing the Internal Revenue Service was an American tradition. This was payback for me because the IRS had screwed up my life, while my wife was screwing the Mafia don. These two seemingly disparate problems were actually related, as I had found out the hard way.

I guess I’d hit a patch of rough road back then, a little adversity in an otherwise charmed and privileged life. But adversity builds character, and to be honest, it wasn’t all Susan’s fault, or Frank Bellarosa’s fault, or the fault of the IRS, or my stuffed-shirt law partners; it was partly my own fault because I, too, was involved with Frank Bellarosa. A little legal work. Like representing him on a murder charge. Not the kind of thing I normally did as a Wall Street lawyer, and certainly not the kind of case that Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds would approve of. Therefore, I’d handled this case out of my Locust Valley, Long Island, office, but that wasn’t much cover when the newspapers got hold of it.

Thinking back on this, I couldn’t help but know I was committing professional and social suicide when I took a Mafia don as a client. But it was a challenge, and I was bored, and Susan, who approved of and encouraged my association with Frank Bellarosa, said I needed a challenge. I guess Susan was bored, too, and as I found out, she had her own agenda regarding Frank Bellarosa.

And speaking of Susan, I had discovered through my son, Edward, that, quote, “Mom has bought our house back.”

Bad grammar aside – I sent this kid to great schools – what Edward meant was that Susan had reacquired the large guest cottage on the Stanhope estate. This so-called cottage – it has six bedrooms – had been our marital residence for nearly twenty years, and is located about a quarter mile up the main drive of the estate. In other words, Susan and I were now neighbors.

The guest cottage and ten acres of property had been carved out of the two hundred sixty acres of the Stanhope estate by Susan’s father, William, who’s an insufferable prick, and deeded to Susan as a wedding gift. Since I was the groom, I always wondered why my name wasn’t on the deed. But you need to understand old money to answer that. You also need to understand pricks like William. Not to mention his ditsy wife, Susan’s mother, Charlotte. These two characters are unfortunately still alive and well, living and golfing in Hilton Head, South Carolina, where Susan had been living since the unfortunate gun mishap that took her lover’s life ten years ago.

Before Susan left for South Carolina, she’d sold the guest cottage to a yuppie corporate transfer couple from someplace west of the Hudson. You know your marriage is in trouble when your wife sells the house and moves to another state. In truth, however, it was I who ended the marriage. Susan wanted us to stay together, making the obvious point that her lover was dead, and thus we needn’t worry about bumping into him at a party. In fact, she claimed that was why she’d killed him; so we could be together.

That wasn’t quite it, but it sounded nice. In retrospect, we probably could have stayed together, but I was too angry at being cuckolded, and my male ego had taken a major hit. I mean, not only did our friends, family, and children know that Susan was fucking a Mafia don, but the whole damned country knew when it hit the tabloids: “Dead Don Diddled Lawyer’s Heiress Wife.” Or something like that.

It may have worked out for us if, as Susan had suggested, I’d killed her lover myself. But I wouldn’t have gotten off as easily as she had. Even if I’d somehow beaten the murder rap – crime of passion – I’d have some explaining to do to don Bellarosa’s friends and family.

So she sold the house, leaving me homeless, except, of course, for the Yale Club in Manhattan, where I am always welcome. But Susan, in a rare display of thoughtfulness, suggested to me that Ethel Allard, recently widowed, could use some company in the gatehouse. That actually wasn’t a bad idea, and since Ethel could also use a few bucks in rent, and a handyman to replace her recently deceased husband, I’d moved into the extra bedroom and stored my belongings in the basement, where they’d sat for this past decade.

By spring of the following year, I’d made a financial settlement with my partners and used the money to buy the forty-six-foot Morgan, which I christened Paumanok II. By that time, my membership in the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club had been terminated by mutual consent, so I sailed from the public marina where I’d bought the boat and began my three-year odyssey at sea.

Odysseus was trying to get home; I was trying to get away from home. Odysseus wanted to see his wife; maybe I did, too, but it didn’t happen. I’d told Susan I would put in at Hilton Head, and I almost did, but within sight of land, I headed back to sea with just a glance over my shoulder. Clean break. No regrets.

I threw the nude photos of Susan on the table, instead of in the fireplace. Maybe she wanted them.

I poured more cognac into the dregs of the coffee and took a swallow.

I looked up at a large, ornately framed, hand-colored photo portrait of Ethel and George Allard, which hung over the mantel.

It was a wedding picture, taken during World War II, and George is dressed in his Navy whites, and Ethel is wearing a white wedding dress of the period. Ethel was quite a looker in her day, and I could see how Susan’s grandfather, Augustus, who was then lord of Stanhope Hall, could cross the class line and fiddle with one of his female servants. It was inexcusable, of course, on every level, especially since George, a Stanhope employee, was off to war, protecting America from the Yellow Peril in the Pacific. But, as I found out as a young man during the Vietnam War, and as I’m discovering with this new war, war tears apart the social fabric of a nation, and you get a lot more diddling and fiddling going on.

I stared at Ethel’s angelic face in the photograph. She really was beautiful. And lonely. And George was out of town for a while. And Augustus was rich and powerful. He was not, however, according to family accounts, a conniving and controlling prick like his son, my ex-father-in-law, William. I think Augustus was just horny (it runs in the Stanhope family), and if you look at a picture of Augustus’ wife, Susan’s grandmother, you can see why Augustus strayed. Susan, I guess, got her good looks from her mother, Charlotte, who is still attractive, though brainless.

And on the subject of brains and beauty, my children have both, and show no signs of the Stanhope tendency to be off their rockers. I’d like to say my children take after my side of the family, but my parents aren’t good examples of mental health either. I think I was adopted. I hope and pray I was.

Actually, my father, Joseph, passed away while I was at sea, and I missed the funeral. Mother hasn’t forgiven me. But that’s nothing new.

And on the subject of children, paternity, and genetics, Ethel and George had one child, a daughter, Elizabeth, who’s a nice woman and who lives in the area. Elizabeth gets her beauty from her mother, but looks enough like George to put my mind at ease about any more Stanhope heirs.

I’m taking the long view of this in terms of my children inheriting some of the Stanhope fortune. They deserve some money for putting up with Grandma and Grandpa all their lives. So do I, but a probate court might find my claim on the Stanhope estate – to reimburse me for years of putting up with William’s bullshit – to be frivolous.

In any case, there is a history here – my own family goes back three hundred years on Long Island – and this history is entwined like the English ivy that covers the gatehouse and the guest cottage; interesting to look at from a distance, but obscuring the form and substance of the structure, eventually eating into the brick and mortar.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, sitting not too far from where I was now, had it right when he concluded The Great Gatsby with, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” Amen.

As I reached for the cognac, I noticed a stack of old greeting cards held together by a rubber band, and I slid a card out at random. It was a standard Hallmark anniversary card, and under the pre-printed words of love, joy, and devotion, Susan had written, “John, you don’t know how many times I wake up in the morning and just stare at you lying beside me. And I will do this for the rest of my life.”

I gathered the stack of cards and threw them in the fireplace.

I got up, went into the kitchen, and poured another coffee, then went out the back door and stood on the patio. I could see the lights of the guest cottage, where I used to live with my wife and children. I stood there a long time, then went back inside and sat again at the dining room table. I didn’t think this would be easy, but I certainly didn’t think it would be so hard.

CHAPTER TWO

I stared at the fire for some time, sipping coffee and cognac, my mind drifting between past and present.

So, I thought, I’m here in the gatehouse of the Stanhope estate, partly because Ethel Allard had an affair with Augustus Stanhope during World War II, and partly because my wife had an affair with a Mafia don. As Mr. Bellarosa himself would say, if he were alive, “Go figure.”

And now, according to Edward – and confirmed by my daughter, Carolyn – Susan, a.k.a. Mom, had shown up on the doorstep of the yuppie couple and made them an unsolicited and probably spectacular offer for their home, convincing them, I’m sure, that they’d be happier elsewhere and that she, Susan Stanhope Sutter, needed to return to her ancestral roots.

Knowing Susan, I’m certain this couple felt as though they were being evicted for using the wrong decorator. Or maybe they knew that Mrs. Sutter had killed a Mafia don, and they thought this was an offer they shouldn’t refuse. In any case, it was a done deal, and my former wife was now back in our former house, within the walls of the former Stanhope estate, and a five-minute walk up the drive from my temporary lodgings. It was as though someone had turned back the clock a decade and captured that brief moment in time when Susan and I were still living within walking distance of each other, and all it might have taken for us to be together was a phone call, a knock on the door, or a note. But that time had passed, and we’d both written new chapters in our histories.

Susan, for instance, had remarried. The lucky man was, according to Edward, “an old guy,” and with age comes patience, which one would need to be married to Susan Sutter.

Edward had also described the gentleman as “a friend of Grandpa’s, and really boring.” The boring old guy’s name was Dan Hannon, and he had lived down in Hilton Head, and as per Edward, played golf all day, and had some money, but not a lot, and as per Carolyn, “Mom likes him, but doesn’t love him.” Carolyn added, “She kept our last name.”

My children apparently thought I needed to know all of this, just in case I wanted to go down to Hilton Head, smack Dan on the head with a golf club, and carry Susan off to an island.

Well, before I could do that, Dan Hannon played his last round of golf and dropped dead, literally on the eighteenth hole while unsuccessfully attempting an eight-foot putt. Edward said that Mr. Hannon’s golf partners gave him the shot, finished the hole, then called an ambulance. I think Edward is making up some of this.

In any case, Susan has been widowed for almost a year now, and according to Carolyn, Susan and her hubby had very tight prenuptial agreements, so Susan got only about half a million, which is actually not that bad for five years of marriage, boring or not. My own prenup with Susan Stanhope gave me the wedding album. The Stanhopes are tough negotiators.

And so here we are again, and we can see the lights from each other’s house, and the smoke from our chimneys. And I’ve seen Susan’s car pass by the gatehouse and out the big wrought-iron gates. She drives an SUV (these things seem to have multiplied like locusts in my absence); I think it’s a Lexus. Whatever, it still has South Carolina plates, and I know that Susan has kept her Hilton Head house. So maybe she intends to split the year between here and there. Hopefully, more there than here. Though, on second thought, what difference does it make to me? I’m only passing through.

My car is a rented Taurus that I park beside the gatehouse, so she knows when I’m home, but she hasn’t stopped by with home-baked brownies.

I don’t actually follow her movements, and it’s rare that I’ve seen her car passing by in the last week. The only other car I’ve noticed is a Mercedes that belongs to Mr. Nasim, the owner of the mansion. What I’m getting at is that I don’t think Susan has a boyfriend. But if she did, I wouldn’t be surprised, and I wouldn’t care.

As for my love life, I’d been totally abstinent during my three-year cruise around the world. Except, of course, when I was in port, or when I had a female crew member aboard. In fact, I was a piggy.

I suppose there are all sorts of complex psychological reasons for my overindulgence, having to do with Susan’s adultery and all that. Plus, the salt air makes me horny.

But I had calmed down considerably in London, partly as a result of my job, which required a suit and a bit of decorum, and partly as a result of having gotten rid of the sailboat, and not being able to use clever lines like, “Do you want to sail with me on my yacht to Monte Carlo?”

Anyway, for my last year or so in London, I’ve had a lady friend. More on that later.

I stoked the fire, then freshened my coffee with cognac.

Regarding the former Mrs. Sutter, as it stands now, neither of us has called on the other, nor have we bumped into each other on the property or in the village, but I know we’ll meet at Ethel’s funeral. To be honest, I’d half expected that she’d come by to say hello. Probably she had the same expectation.

This place is heavy on etiquette and protocol, and I wondered how Emily Post would address this situation. “Dear Ms. Post, My wife was fucking a Mafia don, then she shot and killed him, and we got divorced, and we both moved out of the state and met other people whom we didn’t kill. Now we find ourselves as neighbors, and we’re both alone, so should I bake brownies and welcome her to the neighborhood? Or should she do that? (Signed) Confused on Long Island.”

And Ms. Post might reply, “Dear COLI, A gentleman should always call on the lady, but always phone or write ahead – and make sure she’s gotten rid of that gun! Keep the conversation light, such as favorite movies (but not The Godfather) or sports or hobbies (but not target shooting), and don’t overstay your visit unless you have sex. (Signed) Emily Post.”

Well, I think I’m being silly. In any case, my children are bugging me about calling her. “Have you seen Mom yet?” I’m sure they ask her the same question.

I’d actually seen Susan a few times over the last decade since we’d both left Long Island – at our children’s college graduations, for instance, and at the funeral of my aunt Cornelia, who was fond of Susan. And on these occasions, Susan and I had always been polite and cordial to each other. In fact, she had been friendlier to me than I to her, and I had the impression she had gotten over me and moved on. I, on the other hand… well, I don’t know. And I had no intention of finding out.

On the subject of funerals, I’d attended Frank Bellarosa’s funeral because… Well, I actually liked the guy, despite the fact that he was a criminal, a manipulator, a sociopathic liar, and my wife’s lover. Other than that, he wasn’t a bad guy. In fact, he was charming and charismatic. Ask Susan.

Also on the subject of funerals, the one I was really excited about attending was the one for William Stanhope. But last I heard from Edward, “Grandpa’s feeling pretty good.” That’s too bad.

I picked up the stack of photos again and flipped through them. She really was beautiful and sexy. Smart and funny, too. And, as I said, delightfully nutty.

As I stared at a particularly sexy photo of Susan mounted naked on her stupid horse, Zanzibar, the doorbell rang.

Like most gatehouses, this one is built inside the estate wall, so no one can come to my door unless they pass through the iron gates that face the road. The gates remain closed at night, and they are automated, so you need a code or a remote control to open them, and I can usually hear them or see the headlights at night, which I hadn’t. Therefore, whoever was at my door had come on foot from the estate grounds, and the only current residents of the estate were Amir Nasim, his wife, their live-in help, Susan, and me.

So it could be Mr. Nasim at my door, perhaps to pay a social call, or to inform me that Ethel died two minutes ago, and I had ten minutes to move out. Or possibly it was Susan.

I slipped the photos back into the envelope and walked into the small front foyer as the bell rang again.

I checked myself out in the hallway mirror, straightened my polo shirt and finger-combed my hair. Then, without looking through the peephole or turning on the outside light, I unbolted the door and swung it open.

Standing there, staring at me, was the ghost of Frank Bellarosa.

CHAPTER THREE

He said, “Do you remember me?”

It was not, of course, the ghost of Frank Bellarosa. It was Frank’s son Tony, whom I had last seen at his father’s funeral, ten years ago.

I get annoyed when people ask, “Do you remember me?” instead of having the common courtesy to introduce themselves. But this, I suspected, was not Tony Bellarosa’s most irritating social flaw, nor his only one. I replied, “Yes, I remember you.” I added, in case he thought I was winging it, “Tony Bellarosa.”

He smiled, and I saw Frank again. “Anthony. It’s Anthony now.” He inquired, “You got a minute?”

I had several replies, none of which contained the word “Yes.” I asked him, “What can I do for you?”

He seemed a little put off, then asked, “Can I come in? Oh…” He seemed suddenly to have thought of the only logical explanation for my slow response to the doorbell and my not being thrilled to see him, and he asked, “You got somebody in there?”

A nod and a wink would have sent him on his way, but I didn’t reply.

“Mr. Sutter?”

Well, you’re not supposed to invite a vampire to cross your threshold, and I think the same rule applies for sons of dead Mafia dons. But for reasons that are too complex and too stupid to go into, I said, “Come in.”

I stepped aside, and Anthony Bellarosa entered the gatehouse and my life. I closed the door and led young Anthony into the small sitting room.

I indicated a rocking chair – Ethel’s chair – near the ash-heaped fireplace, and I took George’s threadbare wingback chair facing my guest. I did not offer him a drink.

Anthony did a quick eye-recon of the room, noting, I’m sure, the shabby furnishings, the faded wallpaper, and the worn carpet.

Also, he may have been evaluating some personal security issues. His father used to do this, more out of habit than paranoia. Frank Bellarosa also had an unconscious habit of checking out every female in the room while he was checking to see if anyone might want to kill him. I admire people who can multitask.

In the case of Susan Sutter, however, Frank had missed some crucial clues and signs of trouble. If I could speculate about those last few minutes of Frank Bellarosa’s life, I’d guess that the blood in Frank’s big brain had flowed south into his little brain at a critical moment. It happens. And when it does, the rest of your blood can wind up splattered around the room, as happened to poor Frank.

Anthony said, “Nice little place here.”

“Thank you.” In fact, these old estate gatehouses looked quaint and charming on the outside, but most of them were claustrophobic. I don’t know how I managed to share this cottage with Ethel, even for the short time I was here. I recall going out a lot.

Anthony asked me, “You lived here for a while. Right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re back from London. Right?”

I wondered how he knew that.

“But this Arab who owns the mansion owns this place, too. Right?”

“Right.” I further informed him, “He’s an Iranian.”

“Right. A fucking Arab.”

“The Iranians are not Arabs.”

“What are they?”

“Persians.”

This seemed to confuse him, so he changed the subject and asked, “So, you’re… what? Buying it? Renting it?”

“I’m a houseguest of Mrs. Allard.”

“Yeah? So, how’s the old lady?”

“Dying.”

“Right. No change there.”

Obviously, he’d been making inquiries. But why?

“So what happens after she dies?”

I informed him, “She goes to heaven.”

He smiled. “Yeah? And where do you go?”

“Wherever I want.” I suppose I should find out what plans Mr. Nasim had for this house. Maybe he wanted to rent it by the month. But rental prices and sale prices were astronomical on the Gold Coast of Long Island, and they’d actually been going up since 9/11 as thousands of people were quietly abandoning the city out of… well, fear.

“Mr. Sutter? I said, how long are you staying?”

“Until she dies.” I looked at him in the dim light of the floor lamp. I suppose you’d say Anthony Bellarosa was handsome in a way that women, but not men, would think is handsome. Like his father, his features were a little heavy – the women would say sensual – with full lips and dark liquidy eyes. His complexion, also like his father’s, was olive – his mother, Anna, was very fair – and his well-coiffed hair, like Frank’s, was dark and wavy, but probably longer than Pop would have liked. No doubt Anthony – also like his father – did well with the ladies.

He was dressed more casually than his father had dressed. Frank always wore a sports jacket with dress slacks and custom-made shirts. All in bad taste, of course, but at least you knew that don Bellarosa dressed for his image. In the city, he wore custom-made silk suits, and his nickname in the tabloids had been “Dandy Don,” before it became “Dead Don.”

“So, when she dies, then you leave?”

“Probably.” Anthony was wearing scrotum-tight jeans, an awful Hawaiian shirt that looked like a gag gift, and black running shoes. He also wore a black windbreaker, maybe because it was a chilly night, or maybe because it hid his gun. The dress code in America had certainly gone to hell in my absence.

He said, “But you don’t know where you’re going. So maybe you’ll stay.”

“Maybe.” Anthony’s accent, like his father’s, was not pure low-class, but I heard the streets of Brooklyn in his voice. Anthony had spent, I guess, about six years at La Salle Military Academy, a Catholic prep school on Long Island, whose alumni included some famous men, and some infamous men, such as don Bellarosa. No one would mistake the Bellarosa prep school accents for St. Paul’s, where I went, but the six years at boarding school had softened Anthony’s “dese, dose, and dems.”

“So, you and the old lady are, like, friends?”

I was getting a little annoyed at these personal questions, but as a lawyer I know questions are more revealing than answers. I replied, “Yes, we’re old friends.” In fact, as I said, she hated me, but here, in this old vanished world of gentry and servants, of ancient family ties and family retainers, of class structure and noblesse oblige, it didn’t matter much at the end of the day who was master and who was servant, or who liked or disliked whom; we were all bound together by a common history and, I suppose, a profound nostalgia for a time that, like Ethel herself, was dying but not yet quite dead. I wondered if I should explain all this to Anthony Bellarosa, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.

“So, you’re taking care of the place for her?”

“Correct.”

Anthony nodded toward the opening to the dining room, and apropos of the stacks of paper, said, “Looks like you got a lot of work there.” He smiled and asked, “Is that the old lady’s will?”

In fact, I had found her will, so I said, “Right.”

“She got millions?”

I didn’t reply.

“She leave you anything?”

“Yes, a lot of work.”

He laughed.

As I said, I am Ethel’s attorney for her estate, such as it is, and her worldly possessions are to pass to her only child, the aforementioned Elizabeth. Ethel’s will, which I drew up, left me nothing, which I know is exactly what Ethel wanted for me.

“Mr. Sutter? What were you doing in London?”

He was rocking in the chair, and I leaned toward him and inquired, “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Oh… just making conversation.”

“Okay, then let me ask you a few conversational questions. How did you know that Mrs. Allard was dying?”

“Somebody told me.”

“And how did you know I was living in London, and that I was back?”

“I hear things.”

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Bellarosa?”

“Anthony. Call me Anthony.”

That seemed to be as specific as he was going to get.

I looked at his face in the dim light. Anthony had been about seventeen or eighteen – a junior or senior at La Salle – when my wife murdered his father. So, he was not yet thirty, but I could see in his eyes and his manner that unlike most American males, who take a long time to grow up, Anthony Bellarosa was a man, or at least close to it. I recalled, too, that he used to be Tony, but that diminutive lacked gravitas, so now he was Anthony.

More importantly, I wondered if he’d taken over his father’s business.

The most fundamental principle of American criminal law is that a person is innocent until proven guilty. But in this case, I recalled quite clearly what Frank Bellarosa had said about his three sons. “My oldest guy, Frankie, he’s got no head for the family business, so I sent him to college, then set him up in a little thing of his own in Jersey. Tommy is the one in Cornell. He wants to run a big hotel in Atlantic City or Vegas. I’ll set him up with Frankie in Atlantic City. Tony, the one at La Salle, is another case. He wants in.”

I looked at Anthony, formerly known as Tony, and recalled Frank’s pride in his youngest son when he concluded, “The little punk wants my job. You know what? If he wants it bad enough, he’ll have it.”

I suspected that Tony did get the job and became don Anthony Bellarosa. But I didn’t know that for sure.

Anthony asked me, “Is it okay if I call you John?”

“I’m Tony now.” It’s probably not a good idea to make fun of a possible Mafia don, but I did it with his father, who appreciated my lack of ring-kissing. In any case, I needed to establish the pecking order.

Anthony forced a smile and said, “I remember calling you Mr. Sutter.”

I didn’t reply to that and asked him, “What can I do for you, Anthony?”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry to just drop in, but I was driving by, and I saw the lights on here, and like I said, I heard you were back, so the gate was closed and I came in through the… what do you call it? The people gate.”

“The postern gate.”

“Yeah. It was unlocked. You should lock that.”

“I’m not the gatekeeper.”

“Right. Anyway, so I got this idea to stop and say hello.”

I think it was a little more premeditated than that. I said to him, “I hope you’re not blocking the gate.”

“No. My driver took the car up the road. Hey, do you remember Tony? My father’s driver.”

“I remember that he used to be Anthony.”

He smiled. “Yeah. We made a deal. Less confusing.”

“Right.” I didn’t think the dead don’s driver had much to say about that deal. Regarding the family business, the surviving employees, and the rules of succession, I recalled quite clearly that there was another member of the family who wanted Frank Bellarosa’s job, so, to see how Anthony reacted, I asked, “How is your uncle Sal?”

Anthony Bellarosa stared at me and did not reply. I stared back.

The last time I’d seen Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, was at Frank’s funeral. Prior to my wife clipping Frank Bellarosa, someone else had attempted the same thing, and the prime suspect was Uncle Sal. This had occurred at a restaurant in Little Italy, at which I was unfortunately present and close enough to Dandy Don Bellarosa and Vinnie, his bodyguard, to get splattered with Vinnie’s blood. Not one of my better nights out.

In any case, Uncle Sal was not present at the failed hit, of course, but his signature was most probably on the contract. I hate it when families squabble, and though I’m personally familiar with the problem, none of the Sutters or Stanhopes, to the best of my knowledge, have ever taken out a contract on a family member… though it’s not a bad idea. In fact, I think I just found some use for Anthony Bellarosa. Just kidding. Really.

Anthony finally replied, “He’s okay.”

“Good. Give your uncle Sal my regards when you see him.”

“Yeah.”

There are some things in life that you never forget, and those months during the spring and summer leading up to Frank’s death in October and my leaving Susan are filled with sights and sounds that are truly burned into my mind forever. In addition to seeing Vinnie’s head blown off with a shotgun right in front of my face, another sight that I will never forget is of young Anthony Bellarosa at his father’s graveside. The boy held up extremely well – better than his mother, Anna, who was wailing and fainting every few minutes – and in Anthony’s eyes I could see something beyond grief, and I saw him staring at his uncle Sal with such intensity that the older man could not hold eye contact with his young nephew. It was obvious to me, and to everyone, that the boy knew that his uncle had tried to kill his father. It was also obvious that Anthony Bellarosa would someday settle the score. So I was surprised to discover that Uncle Sal was still alive and well – and that Uncle Sal hadn’t killed Anthony yet.

These gentlemen, however, as I’d learned in my brief association with don Bellarosa and his extended family, were extremely patient and prudent when considering who needed to be whacked, and when.

On that subject, I wondered how Anthony felt about Susan Sutter, who’d succeeded where Uncle Sal had failed. Now that Susan was back – about four hundred yards from here, actually – I wondered… but maybe that was a subject best left alone, so I stuck to family chatter and asked Anthony, “How is your mother?”

“She’s good. Back in Brooklyn.” He added, “I’ll tell her I saw you.”

“Please pass on my regards.”

“Yeah. She liked you.”

“The feeling was mutual.” Hanging over this conversation, of course, was the awkward fact that my then-wife had made Anna Bellarosa a widow, and made Anthony and his two brothers fatherless. I asked, “And your brothers? Frankie and Tommy, right?”

“Right. They’re doing good.” He asked me, “How about your kids?”

“They’re doing fine,” I replied.

“Good. I remember them. Smart kids.”

“Thank you.”

The road that passes by Stanhope Hall and Alhambra, Grace Lane, is private and dead ends at the Long Island Sound, so Anthony Bellarosa was not just passing through, and I had the thought that he still lived in this area, which was not a good thought, but I wanted to know, so I asked him, “Where are you living?”

He replied, “On my father’s old estate.” He added, “There’s some houses built there now, and I bought one of them.” He explained, “They’re called Alhambra Estates. Five-acre zoning.”

I didn’t reply, but I recalled that as part of Frank’s stay-out-of-jail deal with the government, he’d had to forfeit Alhambra for unpaid taxes on illegal earnings and/or for criminal penalties. The last time I was on the property after Frank’s death, the magnificent villa had been bulldozed, and the acreage had been subdivided into building plots to maximize the income to the government, and also for spite.

I’d actually driven past the former estate a few times since I’d been back, and I’d caught a glimpse of the new houses through the wrought-iron gates, and what I saw were mini-Alhambras with red-tiled roofs and stucco walls, as though the rubble of the main mansion had regenerated into small copies of itself. I wondered if the reflecting pool and the statue of Neptune had survived.

Anyway, I now discovered that Anthony Bellarosa had purchased one of these tract villas. I wasn’t sure if this was ironic, symbolic, or maybe Anthony had simply gotten a good deal from the builder, Dominic, who was a paesano of Frank’s.

Anthony seemed to be brooding about his lost patrimony and informed me, “The fucking Feds stole the property.”

It annoys me when people (like my ex-wife) rewrite history, especially if I was present at the historical moment in question. Anthony, however, may not have actually known the circumstances surrounding his lost birthright, but he could certainly guess if he had half a brain and a willingness to face the facts.

Apparently, he had neither of these things, and he continued, “The fucking Feds stole the property and put my family out on the street.”

Against my better judgment, I informed Anthony, “Your father gave Alhambra to the government.”

“Yeah. They put a gun to his head, and he gave it to them.”

I should have just ended his unannounced visit, but he had a few more points to make, and I was… well, maybe worried about Susan. I mean, she was still the mother of my children. I looked closely at Anthony. He didn’t look like a killer, but neither did his father. Neither did Susan for that matter. I’ll bet Frank was surprised when she pulled the gun and popped off three rounds.

Anthony was expanding on his subject and said, “They used the fucking RICO law and grabbed everything they could get their hands on after he… died.” Anthony then gave me a historical parallel. “Like the Roman emperors did when a nobleman died. They accused him of something and grabbed his land.”

I never actually thought of Frank Bellarosa as a Roman nobleman, but I could see the Justice Department and the IRS in the role of a greedy and powerful emperor. Nevertheless, I lost my patience and informed him, “The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act is tough, and not always fairly applied, but-”

“It sucks. What happened to due process?”

“Do you have a law degree, Mr. Bellarosa?”

“No. But-”

“Well, I do. But let’s forget the law here. I happen to know, firsthand, that your father agreed to hand over certain assets to the Justice Department in exchange for…” I could see that Anthony Bellarosa knew where this was going, and he did not want to hear that his father had broken the only law that counted – the law of omertà – silence.

So, under the category of speaking only well of the dead, I said to Anthony, “Your father owed some back taxes… I was his tax advisor… and he settled for turning over some assets to the Treasury Department, including, unfortunately, Alhambra.” Frank had also forfeited this property, Stanhope Hall, which he’d purchased, I think at Susan’s urging, from my idiot father-in-law William. But I wasn’t sure Anthony knew about that, and I didn’t want to get him more worked up, so I just said, “It wasn’t a bad deal.”

“It was robbery.”

In fact, it was surrender and survival. I recalled what Frank Bellarosa had told me when he was under house arrest, trying to justify his cooperation with the Feds. “The old code of silence is dead. There’re no real men left anymore, no heroes, no stand-up guys, not on either side of the law. We’re all middle-class paper guys, the cops and the crooks, and we make deals when we got to, to protect our asses, our money, and our lives. We rat out everybody, and we’re happy we got the chance to do it.”

Frank Bellarosa had concluded his unsolicited explanation to me by saying, “I was in jail once, Counselor, and it’s not a place for people like us. It’s for the new bad guys, the darker people, the tough guys.”

Anthony glanced at me, hesitated, then said, “Some guys said… you know, my father had enemies… and some guys said he was… selling information to the government.” He glanced at me again, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Now I see that it was only tax problems. They got him on that once before.”

“Right.”

He smiled. “Like Al Capone. They couldn’t get Capone on bootlegging, so they got him for taxes.”

“Correct.”

“So, bottom line, Counselor, it was you that told him to pay up.”

“Right. That’s better than facing a criminal tax charge.” In fact, it was Frank Bellarosa who had helped me beat a criminal tax charge. Frank had actually engineered the tax charge against me, as I later found out, so the least he could do was get me off the hook. Then I owed him a favor, which I repaid by helping him with his murder charge. Not surprisingly, Frank’s role model was Niccolò Machiavelli, and he could quote whole passages of The Prince, and probably write the sequel.

Anthony asked me, “So, the Feds taking his property had nothing to do with the murder charge against him?”

“No.” And that was partly true. Ironically, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa, probably the biggest non-government criminal in America, hadn’t committed the murder he was charged with. There was undoubtedly little else he hadn’t done in twenty or thirty years of organized criminal activities, but this charge of murdering a Colombian drug lord had been a setup by the U.S. Attorney, Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, who had a personal vendetta against Mr. Frank Bellarosa.

Anthony said to me, “You were one of his lawyers on that murder rap. Right?”

“Right.” I was actually his only lawyer. The so-called mob lawyers stayed out of sight while John Whitman Sutter of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds stood in Federal criminal court in the unaccustomed role of trying to figure out how to get a Mafia don sprung on bail. Frank really didn’t like jail.

Anthony asked me, “Do you know that the FBI found the guys who clipped the Colombian?”

“I know that.” I’d actually heard this a few years ago from my daughter, who’s an assistant district attorney in Brooklyn, and she was happy to tell me that I’d defended an innocent man. The words “innocent” and “Frank Bellarosa” are not usually used in the same sentence, but within the narrow limits of this case, I’d done the right thing, and so I was redeemed. Sort of.

Anthony informed me, “That scumbag, Ferragamo, had a hard-on for my father.”

“True.” Fact was, Mr. Ferragamo, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, wanted to bag the biggest trophy in his jungle – Frank Bellarosa. And he didn’t care how he did it. The murder indictment was bogus, but eventually Alphonse Ferragamo, like a jackal nipping away at a great cape buffalo, had brought down his prey.

Anthony continued his eulogy. “Nothing that scumbag charged ever stuck. It was all bullshit. It was personal. It was vendetta.”

“Right.” But it was business, too. Frank’s business and Alphonse’s business. Don Bellarosa was an embarrassment to the U.S. Attorney. Some of it – maybe more than I understood – was the Italian thing. But professionally, Alphonse Ferragamo couldn’t allow the biggest Mafia don in the nation to walk around free, living in a mansion, riding in expensive cars, and eating in restaurants that Alphonse Ferragamo couldn’t afford. Actually, I guess that’s personal.

So Ferragamo, through various means, legal and not so, finally got his teeth on the big buffalo’s balls, and Frank Bellarosa went down and screamed for mercy.

It’s part of our culture to romanticize the outlaw – Billy the Kid, Jesse James, the aforementioned Al Capone, and so forth – and we feel some ambivalence when the outlaw is brought down by the sanctimonious forces of law and order. Dandy Don Bellarosa, a.k.a. the Bishop, was a media darling, a source of endless public entertainment, and a celebrity. So when the word got out that he was under “protective custody” in his Long Island mansion, and cooperating with the Justice Department, many people either didn’t believe it, or felt somehow betrayed. Certainly his close associates felt betrayed and very nervous.

But before Frank Bellarosa could be paraded into a courtroom as a government witness, his reputation had been saved by Susan Sutter, who killed him. And his death at the hands of his married girlfriend, a beautiful red-haired society lady, only added to his posthumous legend and his bad-boy reputation.

The husband of the Mafia don’s girlfriend (me) got pretty good press, too. But not good enough to make it all worthwhile.

Oddly, Susan didn’t come off too well in the tabloids, and there was a public outcry for justice when the State of New York and the U.S. Attorney dropped any contemplated charges against her, which would have been premeditated murder and murdering a Federal witness, and whatever.

I missed a lot of this media fun by sailing off, and Susan missed some of it by moving to Hilton Head. The New York press quickly loses interest in people who are not in the contiguous boroughs or the surrounding suburban counties.

Anyway, to be honest, objective, and fair, the people who suffered the most in this affair – aside from Frank – were the Bellarosa family. They were all innocent civilians at the time of this crime of passion. Anthony may have made his bones since then, but when he lost his father he was a young student in prep school.

So I said to him, “I knew your father well enough to know that he did what he had to… to get the Feds off his back so that he’d be around for his wife and sons.”

Anthony did not reply, and I used that silence to change the subject. He was wearing a wedding ring, so I said, “You’re married.”

“Yeah. Two kids.”

“Good. A man should be married. Keeps him out of trouble.”

He thought that was funny for some reason.

Rather than beat around the bush, I asked him, “What business are you in?”

He replied without hesitation, “I took over my father’s company. Bell Enterprises. We do moving and storage, trash carting, limo service, security service… like that.”

“And who took over your father’s other businesses?”

“There was no other businesses, Mr. Sutter.”

“Right.” I glanced at my watch.

Anthony seemed in no hurry to get up and leave, and he informed me, “My father once said to me that you had the best combination of brains and balls he’d ever seen.” He added, “For a non-Italian.”

I didn’t reply to that, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about hearing it. Aside from the fact that it was a qualified compliment (non-Italian), I needed to consider the source.

Anthony’s visit obviously had a purpose beyond reminiscing about the past and welcoming me to the neighborhood. In fact, I smelled a job offer. The last time I’d worked for a Bellarosa, it had ruined my life, so I wasn’t anxious to try it again.

I started to rise, and Anthony said, “I just need a few more minutes of your time.”

I sat back in the wingback chair and said to him, “Please get to the point of your visit.”

Anthony Bellarosa seemed lost in thought, and I watched him. He had none of the commanding presence of his father, but neither was he a weenie trying to fill Pop’s handmade shoes; Anthony was the real thing, but not yet a finished product of his environment. Also, I had the impression he was toning down his inner thugishness for my benefit. And that meant he wanted something.

Finally, he said, “I ask around a lot about my father, from his friends and the family, and they all have these great things to say about him, but I thought since he really respected you… maybe you could give me some… like, something about him that his paesanos didn’t understand. You know?”

I know that people want to hear good things about their dearly departed from those who knew them, and clearly the boy idolized his father, so the alleged purpose of Anthony’s visit was to hear John Whitman Sutter – Ivy League WASP – say something nice and grammatical for the record. Then why did I think I was on a job interview? I replied, “I knew him for only about… oh, six months.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay. And maybe think about how I can repay you for what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“You saved his life.”

I didn’t reply.

“The night at Giulio’s. When someone shot him. You stopped the bleeding.”

What in the world was I thinking when I did that? I mean, by that time, I was sure that he was screwing my wife. Not only that, it’s not a good idea to interfere with a Mafia hit. I mean, someone – in this case Salvatore D’Alessio – paid good money to have Frank Bellarosa clipped, and I screwed it up. So under the category of “no good deed goes unpunished,” Frank, after he recovered, hinted to me that his brother-in-law, Mr. D’Alessio, was not happy with me. I wondered if Uncle Sal was still annoyed. Or maybe, since my wife killed Frank afterwards, all was forgiven. Maybe I should ask Anthony to ask his uncle about that. Maybe not.

“Mr. Sutter? You saved his life.”

I replied, “I did what anyone who was trained in first aid would have done.” I added, “You don’t owe me anything.”

“It would make me feel good if I could return that favor.”

I clearly recalled Frank’s favors to me, which were not helpful, and I was certain that Anthony’s favors also came with a few strings attached. So, to nip this in the bud, and make myself perfectly clear, I said, “As it turned out, all I did was save your father’s life so my wife could kill him later.”

This sort of caught Anthony by surprise; he probably thought I wasn’t going to bring up the actual cause of his father’s death. I mean, Frank Bellarosa did not die from natural causes, unless getting shot by a pissed-off girlfriend was a natural cause in his universe.

To make my point more clear, I said, “Your father was fucking my wife. But I guess you know that.”

He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Yeah… I mean, it was in the papers.”

“And do you know that she’s back?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“How do you feel about that?”

He looked me right in the eye and replied, “I think she should have stayed away.”

“Me, too. But she didn’t.” We locked eyeballs and I said to him, “I assume there will not be a problem, Anthony.”

He held eye contact and said, “If we were going to have that kind of problem, Mr. Sutter, it wouldn’t matter if she was living on the moon. Capisce?”

I was sure now that I was speaking to the young don, and I said, “That is the favor you can do for me.”

He thought a moment, then said, “I don’t know what happened between them, but it was personal. So, when it’s personal between a man and a woman, then… we let it go.” He added, “There’s no problem.”

I recalled that when Frank Bellarosa said there was no problem, there was a problem. But I let it go for now, making a mental note to follow up with Anthony Bellarosa on the subject of not whacking my ex-wife. I mean, she hadn’t done me any favors lately, but as I said, she’s the mother of my children. I would point this out to Anthony, but then he’d remind me that Susan had left him without a father. It’s incredible, if you think about it, how much trouble is caused by putting Tab A into Slot B.

In any case, I’d really had enough strolling down memory lane, and I’d made my point, so I stood and said, “Thanks for stopping by.”

He stood also, and we moved into the foyer. I put my hand on the doorknob, but he stood away from the door. He asked me, “You seen your wife yet?”

“My ex-wife. No, I have not.”

“Well, you will. You can tell her everything’s okay.”

I didn’t reply, but I thought that Susan Stanhope Sutter had probably not given a single thought to the fact that she’d moved back into the neighborhood where she murdered a Mafia don. And by now, she must have heard that Anthony lived on the old Alhambra estate. Maybe she planned to pay a belated condolence call on Anthony since she hadn’t attended her lover’s funeral. I’m not being entirely facetious; Susan has this upper-class belief that just because you shoot a man, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be polite to his friends and family.

Anthony suggested, “Maybe we can go to dinner some night.”

“Who?”

“Us.”

“Why?”

“Like, just to talk.”

“About?”

“My father. He really respected you.”

I wasn’t sure I felt the same about don Bellarosa. I mean, he wasn’t pure evil. In fact, he was a good husband and good father, except for the extramarital affairs and getting his youngest son into organized crime. And he could be a good friend, except for the lying and manipulating, not to mention fucking my wife. He also had a sense of humor, and he laughed at my jokes, which showed good intellect. But did I respect him? No. But I liked him.

Anthony said, “My father trusted you.”

I’m sure Anthony really did want to know about his father; but he also wanted to know more about me, and why his father thought so highly of me. And then… well, like his father, he’d make me an offer I should refuse. Or was I being egotistical, or overly suspicious of Anthony’s neighborly visit?

Anthony saw that I was vacillating, so he said, “I’d consider it a favor.”

I recalled that these people put a high value on favors, whether they were offered or received, so I should not take the word lightly. On the other hand, one favor needed to be repaid with another, as I found out the hard way ten years ago. Therefore, absolutely no good could come of me having anything further to do with Anthony Bellarosa.

But… to blow him off might not be a good idea in regard to my concern about Susan. And if I was very paranoid, I’d also consider my own concern about Salvatore D’Alessio. As Frank once explained to me, “Italian Alzheimer’s is when you forget everything except who pissed you off.”

Anyway, there were still some blasts from the past that perhaps needed discussion, and with those thoughts in mind I made my second mistake of the evening and said, “All right. Dinner.”

“Good.” He smiled and asked, “How about Giulio’s?”

I really didn’t want to return to the restaurant in Little Italy where Frank took three shotgun blasts. Bad memories aside, I didn’t think the owner or staff would be happy to see me show up with Junior. I said, “Let’s try Chinese.”

“Okay. How about tomorrow night?”

It was Monday, and I needed about forty-eight hours to come to my senses, so I said, “Wednesday. There’s a place in Glen Cove called Wong Lee. Let’s say eight.”

“I can pick you up.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. It’ll just be us.” Anthony reminded me, “You don’t want to mention the time and place to anybody.”

I looked at him, and our eyes met. I nodded, and he said, “Good.”

I started to open the door, but Anthony said, “Just a sec.” He pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed, and said, “Yeah. Ready.” He hung up and asked me, “You want to come out and say hello to Tony?”

I wouldn’t have minded some fresh air, but as I learned at Giulio’s, it’s a good rule not to stand too close to anyone who needs a bodyguard, so I said, “Perhaps another time.”

He apparently needed a minute to be sure he wouldn’t be standing alone on a dark road, so to pass the time, he asked me, “How come you haven’t seen her?”

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah? Is she busy? She got a boyfriend?”

“I have no idea.”

He looked at me and surprised me with a deep philosophical insight by saying, “This is all pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”

I didn’t reply.

His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the display but did not answer. He said to me, “Thanks for your time.”

I opened the door and said, “Thank you for stopping by.”

He smiled and said, “Hey, you looked like you saw a ghost.”

“You have your father’s eyes.”

“Yeah?” He put out his hand, and we shook. He said, “See you Wednesday.”

He walked out into the chill air, and I watched him go through the small postern gate and out to the road where Tony stood beside a big black SUV of some sort. What happened to the Cadillacs? The SUV was running, but its headlights were off, and Tony had his left hand on the door handle and his right hand under his jacket.

Some of this was a little melodramatic, I thought, but you might as well follow the drill. You just never know. Then, I thought, maybe there’s an open contract out on Anthony Bellarosa. And I’m having dinner with this guy?

Before the boys completed the drill, I closed the door and went back into the dining room, where I poured myself a cup of cognac.

“Right. Pretty fucked up.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The following day, I drove my Taurus along Skunks Misery Road, one of a number of roads around here with less than appealing names, which you’d think the residents or realtors might want to change – but these are historic names, some going back to the 1600s, plus people who are worth a zillion bucks wouldn’t care if their estate was on a road called Chicken Shit Lane. It actually adds to the charm.

The Gold Coast is a collection of colonial-era villages and hamlets on the North Shore of Long Island’s Nassau County, about twenty-five to thirty miles east of Manhattan. Some of these villages have quaint downtowns, and some, like Lattingtown, where Stanhope Hall is located, are exclusively residential, a quiltwork of grand estates, smaller estates with pretensions, and new McMansion subdivisions built on former estates.

In its day – between the Gilded Age and the Roaring Twenties, which ended on Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929 – the Gold Coast of Long Island held the largest concentration of power and wealth in the world. You couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a billionaire. Since then, the Depression, the war, income tax, and the spreading suburbs had delivered what should have been mortal blows to this Garden of Eden of old money, old families, and old customs; but it’s hung on, a shadow of its former self, though now, with all this new Wall Street wealth, I sense a resurrection of the form, though not the substance, of this vanished world.

The Village of Locust Valley is the quintessential Gold Coast village, and that was my destination. My modest goal was a sandwich; specifically, Black Forest ham with Muenster cheese and mustard on pumpernickel bread. I’d been thinking about that for a week or so, and now the time had come. This sandwich could be obtained at Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I hoped had not succumbed to gentrification, food fads, or healthy eating habits.

It was a perfect June day, mid-seventies, mostly sunny with a few fair-weather clouds in a light blue sky. The flowers were in bloom, and the big old trees were fully leafed and fluttering in a soft breeze. Outside the car, the birds were singing and bees were pollinating exquisite flowers while butterflies alighted on the little pug noses of perfect children, causing them to giggle to their nannies, “Oh, Maria, isn’t it wonderful to be rich?”

Being back here had sharpened my memories of why I was still teed off after a decade. I mean, I’d gotten on with my life, and my three-year sail, complete with a few life-threatening episodes, had been sufficiently cathartic and distracting so that I didn’t dwell on the past. And the seven years in London never seemed like an exile, or a place where I’d gone to escape the past. But now that I’ve returned, I feel that the past has been waiting patiently for me.

On a more positive note, most of these familiar sights brought back some good memories. I mean, I was born here, and grew up here, and got married and raised children here, and I still had family and friends here. And then I left. Maybe that’s why I’m still angry; it shouldn’t have turned out this way – and wouldn’t have if Frank Bellarosa hadn’t been screwing my wife, or vice versa.

I continued my drive down memory lane, which was now called Horse Hollow Road, and passed my former country club, The Creek. This brought back a lot of memories, too, such as the time Susan and I took don Bellarosa and his gaudily dressed wife, Anna, to the club for dinner. The members were not pleased, and looking back on it, I was not displaying good judgment. But it was pretty funny.

Anyway, it was Tuesday, near noon, and the day after Anthony Bellarosa had dropped by for what I knew had been an exploratory visit. I couldn’t believe I’d actually made a dinner date with this guy. As one of my own paesanos once said, “If you are going to sup with the devil, bring a long spoon.” Or, in this case, long chopsticks. Better yet, cancel that dinner.

This was my first trip to the village since I’d returned, and as I approached I noted the familiar landmarks. This area was settled in 1667 by the English, including my ancestors, and the residents have been resisting change ever since, so there wasn’t too much new in the quaint hamlet. It’s all about the zoning.

I turned onto Birch Hill Road, the old main street, and cruised through Station Plaza, where I used to take the Long Island Railroad for my fifty-minute commute into Manhattan. In the plaza was McGlade’s Pub, where Susan would sometimes meet me when I got off the train. Thinking back, I now wondered how many times she’d had afternoon sex with Frank Bellarosa before having drinks with me.

I slowed down as I approached my former law offices, where I used to put in a day or two each week to break up the commute into the city. The Locust Valley branch of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds had been housed in a Victorian mansion at the edge of town. The mansion was still there, and it was still a law office, but the ornate sign on the front lawn now read: joseph p. bitet amp; justin w. green, attorneys-at-law.

I didn’t recognize those names, and not seeing my name on the sign was a bit of a shock, though it shouldn’t have been.

If this was a Twilight Zone episode, I’d now enter the building and see that the furniture was different, and I’d say to the receptionist, “Where’s Kathy?” and the lady would look at me, puzzled, and reply, “Who?”

“My receptionist.”

“Sir? How can I help you?”

“I’m John Sutter. This is my office. Why is my name not on the sign?”

And the lady would say, “Just a moment, sir,” then disappear and call the police, who would come and take me away as I was ranting about this being my office, and demanding they find my secretary, or call my wife to straighten this all out. Then Rod Serling’s voice-over would say, “John Whitman Sutter thought he’d just returned to his office after lunch – but he’d been gone longer than that… in the Twilight Zone.”

I doubled back toward the center of the village. Anyone from west of the Hudson who was dropped into this little town would not mistake Birch Hill Road for Main Street USA. For one thing, there are an inordinate number of imported luxury cars on the street, and the stores, I noticed, were still mostly antiques and boutiques, art galleries, and restaurants, with not a Starbucks to be seen.

I’d been avoiding Locust Valley, where I probably still knew a lot of people, but now that I was here, I could imagine a chance encounter with a former friend or neighbor. “Hello, John. Where have you been, old boy?”

“Around the world on my boat, then London. I left about ten years ago.”

“Has it been that long? How is Susan?”

“We got divorced after she shot her Mafia lover.”

“That’s right. Damned shame. I mean, the divorce. Why don’t we have lunch at the club?”

“I’m never allowed to set foot in The Creek or Seawanhaka for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t say? Well, you look wonderful, John. Let me know when you’re free.”

“I’ll send my man around with some dates. Ciao.”

Anyway, I turned onto Forest Avenue and found a parking space near Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I used to frequent whenever I got tired of Susan’s organic compost.

I was glad to see that the deli was still there, but inside, I discovered that there had been a Mexican invasion, and the English language was not on the menu.

Nevertheless, I ordered in my usual brusque New York manner, “Black Forest ham, Muenster, mustard, on pumpernickel.”

“Mister?”

“No, Muenster.”

“Muster.”

“No. Good Lord, man, I’m ordering a sandwich. What part of that order couldn’t you understand?”

“Blaforesam. Yes?”

I could hear the soundtrack from The Twilight Zone in my head, and I whispered, “Where’s Rolf? What have you done with Rolf?”

He made a joke and said, “He go, amigo.”

“Right.” Anyway, I didn’t want a German sandwich made in Mexico, so I said, “Just give me a coffee with leche. Milko. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I got my coffee and left.

A few doors down was a new gourmet food shop, and as I sipped my coffee, I moved toward the shop window to look at the menu. Suddenly, the door opened and out walked Susan Stanhope Sutter. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I felt a thump in my chest.

She would have seen me, not twenty feet away, if she hadn’t been talking on her cell phone.

I hesitated. But having thought about this already, I decided to go up to her and say hello.

Susan sat at a small café table in front of the shop and, still talking on the phone, unpacked her lunch bag. Lady Stanhope laid out her paper napkin, plastic utensils, imported water, and salad exactly as it belonged at a well-set table.

It had been four years since I’d seen her, at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral, and her red hair was a little shorter than I remembered, and her tan was browner than I’d ever seen it. She wore a frosty pink gloss on her pouty lips, and those catlike green eyes still looked like emeralds in the sunlight. I found myself thinking of those photographs of her nude on the boat.

I got rid of that image and noticed that she was wearing one of the standard Locust Valley outfits – tan slacks and a green polo shirt in which was hooked a pair of sunglasses. She had on a sports watch, but no other jewelry, not even a widow’s wedding ring, and on the table was what I think was a Coach handbag to complete the look; simple and not too chic for an afternoon in the village. Most of all, it signaled that she was gentry, not townie.

Anyway, I drew a deep breath and took a step toward her, but before I could get into full gear, the shop door opened and another woman came out, glanced at me, then turned to Susan and sat down opposite her.

Susan got rid of her phone call, and she and her lunch companion began to chat.

I didn’t know the lady, but I knew the type. She was somewhat older than Susan, but still dressed preppie, and her name was probably Buffy or Suki or Taffy, and she firmly believed that you can never be too rich or too thin.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Taffy (or whatever her name was) spoke in the local dialect known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. Okay, I’ll tell you. This is an affliction of women, mostly, but men are sometimes stricken with it, and it occurs usually in social situations when the speaker’s teeth are clenched, and enunciation is accomplished by moving only the lips. This produces a nasal tone that’s surprisingly audible and distinct, unless the speaker has a deviated septum.

Anyway, Taffy’s lunch consisted of bottled water and yogurt with five grapes that she plucked from a thousand-dollar handbag. She and Susan seemed at ease with each other, and I couldn’t tell if they were talking about something light, like men, or something important, like shopping.

I had this sudden urge to walk over to them and say something uncouth to Taffy, like, “Hi, I’m John Sutter, Susan’s ex-husband. I divorced her because she was fucking a Mafia greaseball, who she then shot and killed.”

But Taffy probably already knew that, since this was not the kind of local gossip one could hide or forget. This place thrived on scandal and gossip, and if everyone who had done something scandalous was ostracized, then the country clubs would be empty, and the house parties would be poorly attended.

There were, however, limits to bad behavior, and the Sutters taking the Bellarosas to dinner at The Creek was one such example. On the other hand, Mrs. Sutter having an affair with Mr. Bellarosa was not likely to get her stricken from the A-List. In fact, her presence at charity events, cocktail parties, and ladies’ luncheons would be most desirable. As for shooting your lover, well, it was not completely unheard of, and with a little spin, a tawdry crime of passion could be repackaged as a matter of honor. Bottom line on this was that Susan Sutter was a Stanhope, a name permanently entered into the Blue Book. Substitute any other local family name – Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Pratt, Whitney, Grace, Post, Hutton, Morgan, or whatever – and you begin to understand the unwritten rules and privileges.

I watched Susan and Taffy lunching and talking, and I took a last look at Susan. Then I turned and walked to my car.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next day, Wednesday, was overcast, so I didn’t mind spending the day in the dining room of the gatehouse, my mind sometimes focused on the paperwork at hand, sometimes wandering into the past that was spread before me.

I still hadn’t burned the nude photos of Susan, and I thought again about actually giving them to her; they weren’t exclusively mine, and she might want them. What would Emily Post say? “Dear Confused on Long Island, Nude photographs of a former spouse or lover should be returned, discreetly, via registered mail, and clearly marked, ‘Nude Photographs – Do Not Bend.’ An enclosed explanation is not usually necessary or appropriate, though in recent years the sender often indicates in a short note that the photographs have not been posted on the Internet. The recipient should send a thank-you note within ten days. (Signed) Emily Post.”

On the subject of communication between ex-spouses, in my phone calls to and from Edward and Carolyn, they’d both given me their mother’s new home phone number and told me that she had kept her South Carolina cell phone number. Plus, I had her e-mail address, though I didn’t have a computer. Susan, of course, knew Ethel’s phone number here, which hadn’t changed since FDR was President. So… someone should call someone.

I went back to my paperwork. I found my marriage license and I also found my divorce decree, so I stapled them together. What came in between was another whole story.

Regarding my divorce decree, I’d need this in the unlikely event I decided to remarry. In fact, the lady in London, Samantha, had said to me, “Why don’t we get married?” to which I’d replied, “Great idea. But who would have us?”

I’d spoken to Samantha a few times since I’d left London, and she wanted to fly to New York, but since the relationship was up in the air, Samantha wasn’t up in the air.

I pulled a manila envelope toward me that was marked, in Susan’s handwriting, “Photos for Album.” They hadn’t made it into any album and were not likely to do so. I spilled out the photos and saw that they were mostly of the Sutters, the Stanhopes, and the Allards, taken over a period of many years, primarily on holiday occasions – Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and all that.

The whole cast was there – William and Charlotte Stanhope and their wastrel son, Susan’s brother, Peter, as well as Susan herself, looking always twenty-five years old.

Then there was me, of course, with Edward and Carolyn, and my parents, Joseph and Harriet, and in one of the photos was my sister Emily with her ex-husband, Keith. There was a nice shot of my aunt Cornelia and her husband, Arthur, now both deceased.

It was hard to believe that there was a time when everyone was alive and happy. Well, maybe not that happy, but at least encouraged to smile for the camera, helped along by a few cocktails.

As I looked at the photos, I couldn’t believe that so many of these people were dead, divorced, or, worse, living in Florida.

I noticed an old photo of Elizabeth Allard, and I remembered the occasion, which was Elizabeth’s college graduation party, held on the great lawn of Stanhope Hall, another example of noblesse oblige, which is French for, “Sure you can use our mansion, and it’s not at all awkward for any of us.” Elizabeth, I noticed, was a lot prettier than I remembered her. Actually, I needed to call her because she was the executrix of her mother’s estate.

I pushed the photos aside, except for one of George and Ethel. Longtime family retainers often become more than employees, and the Allards were the last of what had once been a large staff, which reminded me that I needed to go see Ethel. I needed to do this because I was her attorney, and because, despite our differences, we’d shared some life together, and she was part of my history as I was of hers, and we’d all been cast in the same drama – the Allards, the Sutters, and the Stanhopes – played on the stage of a semi-derelict estate in a world of perpetual twilight.

Tonight, I decided, was as good a time as any to say goodbye; in fact, there probably wasn’t much time left.

But that reminded me that I had another date with destiny this evening: Mr. Anthony Bellarosa. I’d thought about canceling that dinner, but I didn’t know how to reach him, and standing him up wouldn’t make him go away.

On the subject of calling people, Ethel’s pink 1970s princess phone was my only form of communication, and I used it sparingly, mostly to call Samantha, Edward, and Carolyn, and my sister Emily in Texas, whom I loved very much, and my mother who… well, she’s my mother. As for incoming calls, a few of Ethel’s elderly friends had called, and I told them the bad news of Ethel being in hospice. At that age, this news is neither shocking nor particularly upsetting. One elderly lady had actually called from the same hospice house, and she was delighted to hear that her friend was right upstairs, perched on the same slippery slope.

Ethel had no Caller ID, so each time the phone rang, I had to wonder if it was hospice, Mr. Nasim, Susan, or Samantha telling me she was at JFK. Ethel did have an answering machine, but it didn’t seem to work, so I never knew if I’d missed any calls when I was out.

The idiotic cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed four, and I took that as a signal to stretch and walk outside through the back kitchen door for some air.

The sky was still overcast, and I could smell rain. I stood on the slate patio and surveyed this corner of the old estate.

Amir Nasim had gardeners who cared for the diminished grounds, including the trees and grass around the gatehouse. Along the estate wall, the three crabapple trees had been pruned, but there would be no crabapple jelly from Ethel this year, or ever.

Beyond the patio was a small kitchen garden, and Ethel had done her spring planting of vegetables before she became ill. The garden was overgrown now with weeds and wildflowers.

And in the center of the neglected garden was a hand-painted wooden sign that was so old and faded that you couldn’t read it any longer. But when it was a fresh, new sign, some sixty years ago, it had read victory garden.

I needed to remember to give that to Ethel’s daughter, Elizabeth.

I could hear the wall phone ringing in the kitchen. I really hate incoming calls; it’s rarely someone offering me sex, money, or a free vacation. And when it is, there are always strings attached.

It continued to ring, and without an answering machine, it kept ringing, as though someone knew I was home. Susan?

Finally, it stopped.

I took a last look around, turned, and went inside to get ready to see an old woman who was going to her final reward, and a young man who, if he wasn’t careful, was going to follow in his father’s footsteps to an early grave.

CHAPTER SIX

At 5:00 p.m., I drove through the magnificent wrought-iron gates of my grand estate and headed south on Grace Lane in my Lamborghini. Reality check: not my estate, and not a Lamborghini.

Grace Lane – named not for a woman, or for the spiritual state in which the residents believed they lived, but for the Grace family of ocean liner fame – was, and may still be, a private road, which means the residents own it and are supposed to maintain it. The last time I was here, my neighbors were trying to unload this expense on various local governments, who didn’t seem anxious to bail out the rich sons of bitches of Grace Lane, some of whom were no longer so rich, but who nonetheless remained sons of bitches. The issue seems to have been resolved in my absence because Grace Lane was now well paved.

I continued south toward the village of Locust Valley, where I needed to stop to buy something for Ethel. One should never arrive empty-handed when paying a visit, of course, but I never know what to bring except for wine, and that wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion; likewise, flowers might seem premature.

Ethel enjoyed reading, so I could stop at the bookstore, but I shouldn’t buy anything too long, like War and Peace. She also liked fruit, but I shouldn’t buy green bananas. All right, I’m not being very nice, but when faced with the hovering presence of the Grim Reaper, a little humor (even bad humor) helps the living and the dying to deal with it. Right? So maybe she’d get a kick out of a gift certificate to Weight Watchers.

“Dear Ms. Post, I need to visit an elderly lady in hospice, whose time left on earth could be measured with a stopwatch. Why should I bother to bring her anything? (Signed) COLI. P.S. I don’t like her.”

“Dear COLI, Good manners don’t stop at death’s door. An appropriate gift would be a box of chocolates; if she can’t eat them, her visitors can. If she dies before you get there, leave the chocolates and your calling card with the receptionist. It’s the thought that counts. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. Try to make amends if she’s conscious.”

I turned onto Skunks Misery Road, and within a few minutes found myself again in the village of Locust Valley. I hate shopping for anything, including cards and trivial gifts, so my mood darkened as I cruised Forest Avenue and Birch Hill Road, looking for some place that sold chocolates. I saw at least a dozen white SUVs that could have been Susan’s, and it occurred to me that she was good at this sort of thing, so if I ran into her – figuratively, not literally – I’d ask her for some advice. The last gift advice I’d gotten from her – at Carolyn’s graduation from Harvard Law – was that the T-shirt I’d bought for Carolyn in London, which, in Shakespeare’s words, said, “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” was not a good law school graduation gift. She may have been right.

Anyway, I gave up on the chocolates, parked, and went into a florist shop.

A nice-looking young lady behind the counter asked how she could help me, and I replied without preamble, “I need something for an elderly lady who’s in hospice and doesn’t have much time left.” I glanced at my watch to emphasize that point.

“I see… so-”

“I am not particularly fond of her.”

“All right… then-”

“I mean, cactus would be appropriate, but she’ll have other visitors, so I need something that looks nice. It doesn’t have to last long.”

“I understand. So perhaps-”

“It can’t look like a funeral arrangement. Right?”

“Right. You don’t want to… Why don’t we avoid flowers and do a nice living plant?”

“How about hemlock?”

“No, I was thinking of that small Norfolk pine over there.” She explained, “Evergreens are the symbol of eternal life.”

“Really?”

“Yes, like, well, a Christmas tree.”

“Christmas trees turn brown.”

“That’s because they’re cut.” She informed me, “We deliver a lot of living evergreens to hospice.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They smell good. And the family can take them home as a memento afterwards.”

“After what?”

“After… the… person…” She changed the subject and asked, “Which hospice is the lady residing at?”

“Fair Haven.”

“We can deliver that for you.”

“Actually, I’m on my way there now and that’s too big to carry, so…” I looked around, and in the corner of the shop was a shelf lined with stuffed animals, including a few Teddy bears, which are big around here because the man who inspired the bear, Teddy Roosevelt, lived in nearby Oyster Bay. I took the best-looking Teddy bear from the shelf, put it on the counter, and said, “I’ll take this.”

“That’s very nice.” She put a pink ribbon around the bear’s neck and stuck a sprig of lavender in the ribbon.

I paid in cash, and the young lady said to me, “She’ll like that. Good luck.”

Back in the car, I headed west toward the hospice house in Glen Cove. I glanced at the fluffy bear sitting beside me, and suddenly I felt a rush of emotion pass over me. It hit me that Ethel Allard was dying, and that so many of the people I once knew were dead, and in an instant I remembered all of them and saw their faces from long ago, smiling, usually in some social setting or holiday occasion, a drink close by, like in the photos I’d just seen.

Where, I wondered, had the years gone? And why hadn’t I appreciated those moments when my world was safe, familiar, and intact?

Well, you can’t go back, and even if I could, I’m not sure if I could have or would have changed anything that led to the end of my life as I knew it, or the end of Frank Bellarosa’s life as he knew it.

Frank Bellarosa, on a cold winter day a decade ago, was driving from Brooklyn and heading to a restaurant in Glen Cove with some business associates for a meeting. They got off the Long Island Expressway, became lost, and somehow wound up on Grace Lane.

They spotted the abandoned estate called Alhambra, and, as Frank told me later, the Lombardy poplars that lined the driveway, and the red-tiled stucco villa, reminded him of his Italian roots. He made inquiries, and bought the estate. Then he moved in. Then I met him. Then Susan and I accepted his invitation to come by for coffee. Then a lot of things happened, ending with my wife murdering her new neighbor and lover.

And now, ten years later, the original cast of this tragedy – -including the dead and the dying – has reassembled for the last and final act.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I headed west on Duck Pond Road, passing Friends Academy, a prep school founded by the local Quakers. Susan had gone to Friends, driven to class, she told me, in a big Lincoln by George Allard, who, as one of the last of the Stanhope servants, wore many hats, including a chauffeur cap.

The Gold Coast of the 1950s and early ’60s, as I recalled, was in a state of transition between the old, pre-war world of Social Register families with dwindling fortunes, and the social upheavals that would sweep away most of what remained of the old order.

Many of these changes were for the better. George, for instance, ceased being a servant and became an employee. That didn’t improve his driving, I’m sure, but it did give him weekends off.

As for Ethel the Red, as I secretly called her because she was a socialist, she never considered herself a servant (especially after she slept with Augustus Stanhope), and she’s lived long enough to see many of her idealistic dreams realized.

A sign informed me that I had entered the Incorporated City of Glen Cove, which is actually a medium-sized town of about twenty thousand people – or more, if you count the newly arrived immigrants who did not bother with the citizenship requirements.

Glen Cove is located on Hempstead Harbor and the Long Island Sound, and like many north shore Long Island communities, it was founded by English settlers in the 1600s, including my distant ancestors, who, when they arrived, did not bother asking the local Matinecock Indians for citizenship applications or work visa permits.

Anyway, the white skins and the red skins lived in relative peace and harmony for a century, mostly as a result of the Indians dying from European diseases. The British occupied Long Island for much of the Revolution, and many of the local inhabitants remained loyal to the Crown, including, I confess, the Sutters, who still have this conser-vative streak in them – except for my late father, who was a liberal Democrat and who used to get into political arguments at Republican-dominated family gatherings. My crazy mother, Harriet, is also a progressive, and she and Ethel were always allies against the majority of unenlightened, repressive male pigs who once dominated the society of the Gold Coast.

But even that had been changing, and when I left here ten years ago, if you had a friend or neighbor who was a Democrat, you could talk about it openly without worrying about real estate values plummeting.

On the subject of war and politics, I was half listening to a conservative radio talk show, and I turned up the volume to listen to a caller saying, “We need to nuke them before they nuke us.”

The host, trying to sound a bit rational, replied, “Okay, but who do we nuke?”

The caller answered, “All of them. Nuke Baghdad first so we don’t have to send our boys there to get killed.”

“Okay, but maybe we should just nuke the Al Qaeda training camps first. They’ll all get the message.”

“Yeah. Nuke the camps, too.”

The host cut away for a commercial break that was preceded by the rousing patriotic music of John Philip Sousa, a former Long Island resident who seemed to be making a comeback.

There had been an amazing transformation in the political and social culture since 9/11, and it was sort of jarring if you hadn’t been here to see it developing. Virtually every house had an American flag flying, including the shops and houses here in Glen Cove, not usually a bastion of conservatism. And nearly every vehicle had a flag on its antenna, or a decal on a window, or bumper stickers that said things like “9/11 – Never Forget,” or “Bin Laden – You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide,” and so forth. Also, nearly everyone I’d seen in Locust Valley wore an American flag pin. Thinking about this, I had the distinct feeling that people had been checking out my car for signs that I was a loyal American.

Anyway, back to the last century, when Glen Cove became home to a large immigrant Italian population, who found work building and maintaining the grand mansions and estate grounds. This manual labor for the rich eventually morphed over the generations into successful Italian-American-owned construction companies, landscaping enterprises, and related endeavors.

This was a great American success story, but unfortunately, a side effect of the large Italian population of Glen Cove is the existence of a small but persistent group of gentlemen whose business is not landscaping. Thus it was that Mr. Frank Bellarosa from Brooklyn was on his way to Glen Cove, Long Island, a decade ago to meet some business associates at an Italian restaurant. Ironically, today, with GPS, he and his driver – was it Anthony, now known as Tony? – would not have gotten lost and wound up on Grace Lane, and Fate would have been sidetracked by satellite technology. Go figure.

I headed north on Dosoris Lane, a seventeenth-century road that led toward the Sound, and on which some Sutters had lived in centuries past.

I’ve never had occasion to visit the Fair Haven Hospice House, but the nice lady on the phone had given me good directions, and assured me that Mrs. Allard could have visitors – though she also cautioned that this situation could change by the time I arrived.

Dosoris Lane passed through what had once been eight great estates, all belonging to the Pratt family, and built by Mr. Charles Pratt of Standard Oil for himself and seven of his eight children. Why number eight didn’t get an estate is a mystery to me, but I’m sure Charles Pratt had his reasons, just as William Peckerhead of Hilton Head had his reasons for deeding the Stanhope guest cottage and ten acres to Susan, as sole owner. Susan, of course, could have changed the deed, but that would have angered William, and we don’t want to get Daddy angry.

On the subject of real estate, I always wondered what William Stanhope thought about Ethel Allard’s life tenancy in the gatehouse. I never knew if William was aware that his father, Augustus, had been popping the chambermaid, or whatever Ethel’s position was at the time. But he must have known if Susan, who told me the story, knew. And yet William never shared that family secret with me. Probably he was embarrassed – not by the sexual indiscretion of his father, but by the fact that the little servant girl got a good real estate deal from a Stanhope. As I said, Tab A does not go into Slot B – follow directions.

I passed one of the former Pratt estates, Killenworth, which was used as a weekend retreat for the Russian Mission to the United Nations. When the bad old Commies were around, there were KGB-type guards with guns and mean dogs at the iron gates. Now it looked peaceful and unguarded.

The ultimate rite of passage for boys – and even girls – when I was a kid growing up in Locust Valley, was to “cross the border” into the Soviet estate and play a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with the Russian guards and their dogs. The secret, incidentally, was raw ground beef – the dogs loved it.

We were more crazy than brave, I think, and we all had a story about some kid who had disappeared forever behind the Iron Curtain. I don’t think any of those stories were true, and most kids who vanished from the neighborhood were later discovered to have moved away with their families on a corporate transfer or gone to boarding school.

The Russian guards, I’m sure, thought we were incredibly daring, resourceful, and courageous, and I’m certain this was reported back to Moscow and led directly to the collapse of the Soviet Empire and the end of the Cold War. Like most Cold War heroes, however, I and my idiot friends remain anonymous and unsung. Maybe someday the world will know what we did here, but until then, the Glen Cove Police will continue to carry us on their incident reports as unknown trespassers, vandals, and juvenile delinquents. That’s okay. We know.

Up the road was the J. P. Morgan estate and the F. W. Woolworth estate, now both abandoned and partly developed, and as per directions, I turned left onto a private lane, which passed through some woods. Up ahead, I saw a big old white stone mansion with a slate roof. A sign directed me to visitor parking.

I pulled into the nearly empty lot, retrieved the Teddy bear, and got out of the car.

The sky had cleared and wispy white clouds scudded north toward the Sound, and big gulls glided low on the horizon. After three years at sea, I’d developed a sense for the weather and nature, and I felt that the Sound must be close by. In fact, I could smell a whiff of salt air, which made me nostalgic for the open ocean.

I walked toward the mansion, thinking, “Not a bad place to spend your last days on earth, Ethel, before the pearly gates swing open to welcome you to the Big Estate in the Sky. Rent-free for eternity and you don’t have to sleep with the boss.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I entered the white building, which I could see had once been a private home. It’s a good thing when these old estate houses can be recycled for another use, like a school, or museum, or, in this case, a nursing home and hospice house. That’s better than the wrecker’s ball and another upscale subdivision to house what seemed like an endless supply of Wall Street whiz kids whose mortgage credit rating somehow exceeded their IQs.

A nice lady at the desk greeted me, and in reply to my inquiry, she informed me that Ethel Allard was “doing as well as can be expected,” which was probably as good as it got here. The only other likely responses were “not well, no visitors” and “passed away.” I didn’t think that “in the gym” was one of the likely status reports at Fair Haven.

The lady directed me to a small elevator in the lobby. “Second floor, room six.”

I was alone in the elevator, which took a long time to ascend one flight, during which I listened to a piped-in minute of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – “Summer,” if you’re interested. I imagined the doors opening to a celestial landscape of white clouds and blue skies with pearly gates in the distance. I really needed a drink.

The doors, in fact, opened to a floral wallpapered corridor, in which stood a Lady in White. She greeted me by name, and introduced herself as Mrs. Knight, then said, “Call me Diane.”

“Hello, Diane.”

“Follow me, please.”

I followed her down the long corridor. Mrs. Knight seemed like one of those health care professionals who was both stern and gentle, a result, no doubt, of having to deal with every conceivable human emotion in the House of the Dying.

She said to me as we walked, “Mrs. Allard is medicated for pain, so you may not find her as alert as you remember her.”

“I understand.”

“She is, however, lucid now, and all her mental faculties are intact.”

“Good.”

“Her pain is tolerable and manageable.”

“That’s good.” I had the feeling I was supposed to be asking questions to elicit these statements, so I asked, “How are her spirits?”

“Remarkably good.”

“Many visitors?”

“A few. Including your mother and your wife.”

“My ex-wife.” I inquired, “They’re not here now, are they?”

“No.” She glanced at my gift and said, “She’s going to love that Teddy bear.”

Mrs. Knight stopped at a door and said to me, “I’ll go inside and tell her you’re here.” She added, “It’s very good of you to come all the way from London to see her.”

“Yes, well… she’s a wonderful lady.”

“Indeed, she is.”

I wondered if there was another Ethel Allard here.

Mrs. Knight was about to open the door, but I asked, “How long…? I mean-”

“Oh, I’d say about half an hour at most.”

“Half an hour?”

“Yes, then she gets tired.”

“Oh. No, I meant-”

“I’ll stick my head in every ten minutes.”

“Right. What I meant… I’ll be in town for only a few more weeks, and I wondered if I’d have the opportunity to see her again.” Mrs. Knight was either not following me, or didn’t want to address the subject, so I asked bluntly, “How long does she have left to live?”

“Oh… well, we never speculate on that, but I’d say the end is near.”

“How near? Two weeks?”

“Maybe longer.” She informed me, “Ethel is a fighter.”

“Three?”

“Mr. Sutter. I can’t-”

“Right. I had an aunt once who-”

“You have no idea what I’ve seen here. Death is the great mystery of life, and so much depends on attitude and prayer.”

“Right. I believe that. I’ve been praying for her.” I need her house.

Mrs. Knight looked at me and delivered what I guessed was a well-rehearsed piece of wisdom, saying, “It’s natural for us to want to hold on to our loved ones as long as possible. But that’s selfish. Ethel has made peace with her condition, and she’s ready to let go.”

That sounded like one week, and I might need two more weeks in the gatehouse. I’d been encouraged by Mrs. Knight’s assertion that Ethel was a fighter, which seemed now to contradict this report that Ethel was ready to let go. Rather than ask for a clarification, I tried a new tack and said, “I’m also her attorney – in addition to being her friend – and there is some paperwork to be drawn up and signed, so perhaps I should speak to her doctor about her… remaining time.”

She nodded and said, “Her attending physician here is Dr. Jake Watral.”

“Thank you.” Maybe the key to my continued stay in the gatehouse was less in the hands of God or Dr. Watral and more in the hands of Amir Nasim, whom I should have called when I got here. Which prompted me to ask Mrs. Knight, “Has a Mr. Amir Nasim called on Mrs. Allard? Or phoned?”

She shook her head and replied, “I’m not familiar with that name.” Mrs. Knight seemed anxious to move on, so she said, “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

She disappeared inside room six long enough for me to have a little guilt pang about my motives in wanting Ethel to keep fighting. I mean, putting aside my housing problem, Ethel’s pain was under control, she was lucid, she had visitors, and she did have some paperwork to sign – so why shouldn’t she hang in there? That’s what her daughter, Elizabeth, would want her to do.

Mrs. Knight reappeared and said to me, “She’s waiting for you.”

I moved toward the door, then turned back to Diane Knight and said to her, “You are a saint to work here.”

A sweet, embarrassed smile passed quickly over her stern lips, and she turned and walked away.

I entered Ethel’s room and gently pulled the door closed behind me.

God, how I hate deathbeds.

CHAPTER NINE

It was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.

The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.

On the sky blue wall facing the bed was a television, and sitting on the tile floor, near the window, were a few floral arrangements and a small potted Norfolk pine.

All in all, not a bad anteroom to the Great Beyond.

Ethel was sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall, and didn’t seem to notice me. I moved to her bedside and said, “Hello, Ethel.”

She turned her head toward me and, without a smile, replied, “Hello, Mr. Sutter.” I recalled that Ethel reserved her smiles for when she had the opportunity to correct you on something.

I said to her, “Please call me John.”

She didn’t respond to that, and said, in a clear voice, “Thank you for coming,” then asked, “Are you looking after my house?”

“I am.” I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

“All right today.”

“Good… you look good.” In fact, in the full sunlight streaming over her, she looked ashen and emaciated, but there was still some life in her eyes. I noticed, too, a touch of rouge on her gray cheeks.

I hadn’t seen her in years, but we’d communicated by letter when necessary, and she’d been good at forwarding my occasional mail to me every few months. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards.

She asked me, “Have you tended to my garden?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“I never let you or George in my garden,” she reminded me. “Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

“Right. But I’ve learned to garden in England.”

“Nonsense.”

“Well… right.”

She said to me, “You’ve been back for over a week.”

“Right…” I explained, “I would have come sooner, but I thought you might be coming home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Don’t-”

“Why don’t you sit? You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I sat in the armchair beside her bed and handed her the Teddy bear. “I brought this for you.”

She took it, looked at it, made a face, then set it beside her. I guess she didn’t love it after all.

I was batting about zero for three or something, so I picked another subject and asked her, “How are they treating you here?”

“All right.”

“Is there anything I can see to?”

“No.”

“Well, if you think of anything-”

“What is the purpose of your return from London, Mr. Sutter?”

“John.”

“Mr. Sutter. Why have you returned?”

Well, Ethel, I need to get my things out of your house before you die and the Iranian guy changes the locks.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well, I came to see you, of course.” This sounded a bit insincere, so I added, “Also, I have some business in New York, and I thought this might be a good time to recover some of my personal effects from the gatehouse.”

“You’d better hurry. That Iranian man won’t let you stay. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“You should speak to him. My life tenancy allows for a reasonable amount of time to have my property removed.” She asked, rhetorically, “But who knows what he considers reasonable.”

“Let me worry about that, if the time comes.”

“Augustus should have been more specific.”

Well, not too specific, Ethel. I’d actually seen the document in question, and it names both George and Ethel, of course, and mentions their loyal and faithful service over the years. George was certainly loyal and faithful, and Ethel was… well, apparently a good lay. I often wondered if George understood the reason for Augustus’ generosity. Anyway, I said to Ethel, “It’s premature to-”

She interrupted, “Have you seen your wife?”

“My ex-wife. No, I have not. Have you?”

“She stopped by yesterday.”

“Then you know I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman.”

I rolled my eyes.

“She looks so beautiful.”

I was getting a little annoyed, so I replied, “Many men seem to think so.”

She ignored that and said, “I think she would like to see you.”

I didn’t inquire as to why Ethel thought that. I changed the subject and said to her, “I opened a jar of your crabapple jelly, and it was wonderful. Would you like me to bring you a jar?”

“No, thank you. But see that Elizabeth gets them.”

“You’ll want some when you go home.”

“And give her all the vegetables I canned last fall.”

I nodded, but she was staring straight ahead, the way dying people do who suddenly catch a brief glimpse into eternity. She then said, as if to herself, “What will become of my harvest?”

I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “How is Elizabeth?”

Ethel came back to earth and replied, “She’s fine.”

“Good.” I’d also heard she was divorced, but ladies of Mrs. Allard’s generation would not mention that. I said, “I need to call her.” I was about to explain that Elizabeth needed to do an inventory of personal property and look over the paperwork, but that might confirm to Ethel that she had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, so I recovered nicely and said, “I need to arrange with her for your home health care.”

She was getting annoyed with my pretense that she was going home, and quite frankly, so was I. She said, “I am dying, Mr. Sutter. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Well, I’m-”

“That’s why I’m in hospice, and not the hospital.”

“Right.”

“What I need you to do is to take care of my affairs after I’m gone.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you.” She added, “I won’t keep you here very long.”

I wanted to say, “Take your time,” but instead I said, “I’ll be here as long as necessary.” I added, “And thank you for your hospitality.”

She reminded me, “You were, and I assume still are, a paying guest. A boarder.”

“Right.” Check’s in the mail, Ethel. I mean, talk about the world turning upside down. Upward mobility in America can be fast, but downward mobility is always a free fall.

Anyway, to put her mind at ease, I said, “If you’ll let me know how much the rent is, I’ll deposit the amount in your account.”

She replied, “The same rent as you were paying ten years ago.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“You may deduct that amount from your bill.”

“There’s no charge for any legal work I may need to perform on your behalf.”

“Thank you.” She asked me, “How long are you staying here, Mr. Sutter?”

Even if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t tell anyone who was in contact with Susan.

“Mr. Sutter? Are you going back to London? Or are you home?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Does that mean you may stay?”

“It means I’m not certain.”

She detected a note of annoyance in my tone, so she changed the subject and asked me, “Is my will in order?”

“I believe it is.” I added, “I’ll need to bring you a few documents to review and update, and perhaps a few papers to sign.”

“Don’t wait a week.”

“I’ll come Saturday or Sunday.”

“Sunday is the Sabbath.”

“Right. Saturday or Monday.”

I never quite understood these old Christian socialists. I mean, it wasn’t a pure contradiction of terms, and socialists could certainly be religious – social justice through Jesus – but Ethel was, in some ways, among the last of a dying breed.

I noticed a few magazines on her tray table and saw that none of them were the old lefty magazines she used to read; they were mostly house and garden monthlies and a few local, upscale Gold Coast publications that, as I recalled, chronicled the activities of the rich and famous, the charity balls, grand house restorations, and some goings-on in Manhattan. Maybe Ethel was collecting the names of millionaires for re-education camps when the Revolution came.

Or maybe, by now, in the clarity of approaching death, she’d realized, like everyone else, that in America all change is superficial; the structure remains the same.

Mrs. Knight, as promised, stuck her head in and inquired, “How are we doing?”

Why do hospital people use the first person plural? I wanted to say, “I’m doing fine. Your patient is still dying.” But before I could say that, Ethel replied, “We’re doing fine, Diane. Thank you.”

“Ring if you need anything.”

I needed a Dewar’s and soda. Ring!

Ethel got back to business and informed me, “I have given Elizabeth written instructions for my funeral. See that she follows them.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“See to it.”

“Right.”

“She’s strong-willed, and wants everything her way.”

I wonder who she got that from?

“I’ve picked out my dress. Have her find it.”

“Right.” Apparently, there’s a lot to think about when you’re dying, and I’m not sure I’d be as cool or organized as Ethel was being. Hopefully, I’d drop dead of a heart attack, or get run over by a bus, and let other people worry about the details.

“Also, be sure that Elizabeth speaks to Father Hunnings.”

“I will.” The Right Reverend James Hunnings was, and I guess still is, our parish priest at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. I thoroughly disliked him, and if he were honest, he would say the same about me. I’d driven past St. Mark’s in Locust Valley and noticed that Hunnings still had top billing on the signboard, which didn’t surprise me; this was a good gig in a wealthy parish, and though Episcopalians should be on the endangered species list, there were still enough of us around here to keep Father Hunnings in the style to which he’d become accustomed.

I asked Ethel, “Have you spoken to Father Hunnings?”

She replied, “Of course. He comes almost every day.” She added, “He’s a wonderful man.”

He wouldn’t be saying the same about Ethel after I told him that Mrs. Allard had left the church only five hundred dollars. Maybe I’m being cynical, but I was looking forward to that phone call. Better yet, I’d invite him to the reading of the will. And to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, I leave… pause for effect, smile, continue – five hundred dollars. Don’t spend it all in one place, Jim.

“Mr. Sutter? What is making you smile?”

“Oh… I was… So, how is Mrs. Hunnings? Delightful woman.”

“She’s well. Have you gone to church?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You should go. Your wife goes.”

“My ex-wife.”

“I’ve discussed my service with Father Hunnings.”

“Good. He does a good job.”

“I didn’t like George’s service.”

Neither did I, but to be fair to Hunnings, George didn’t give him much notice and left no instructions.

Ethel said, “I’ve picked the scripture and the hymns.”

I wondered if she’d also picked the day. If so, I’d like to know about it.

She informed me, “I’m being buried in the Stanhope cemetery.”

I nodded. The Stanhopes, who, as I once said, needed so much land in life, were now all packed neatly into a few acres of a private family cemetery. And, in Pharaonic fashion, they’d made arrangements for their staff to join them. I mean, they didn’t kill them, but just offered the plots as a perk, and it’s free, so why not? In fact, many of the old family servants had been planted in what I called “The Stanhope Bone Orchard,” including George Allard. I think I actually had a plot there, too, but maybe I lost that in the divorce.

Ethel said, “I’ll be next to George.”

“Of course.” Poor George.

I remembered George’s funeral ten years ago, and I recalled that Ethel had disappeared after the graveside service, so I had gone to find her, and I discovered Ethel Allard at the grave of Augustus Stanhope, her long departed employer and lover. She was crying. She had turned to me and said, “I loved him very much… but it could never be. Not in those days.” She’d added, “I still miss him.”

I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos – a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.

Now all things were possible – or seemed to be – but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.

Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.”

I wasn’t sure if that masculine pronoun referred to George or Augustus, and I also wondered how they handled love triangles in heaven. I said, “Yes, you will.”

Ethel said to me, or to herself, “I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends and family who went before me.”

I didn’t reply.

On the subject of reunions, Ethel informed me, “Mrs. Sutter would like to see you.”

I feigned confusion and replied, “My mother and I are barely speaking, Mrs. Allard.”

“I’m speaking of your wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

“She’s very disappointed that you haven’t called her.”

This came as a surprise, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Actually, I felt pretty lousy, but I informed Ethel, “The phone works both ways.”

“Mr. Sutter, if I may be personal, I think you should forgive and forget.”

I slipped into my old master/servant tone of voice and said, “Mrs. Allard, I have forgiven and forgotten, and I have no wish to continue on this subject.”

But Ethel did, and since she was in a unique position to say whatever she wanted without consequence, she said to me, “You’re hurting her, and yourself.”

My goodness. Crotchety old Ethel Allard was seeing some sort of celestial light, and was determined to do something good before she got grilled by St. Peter.

Also, on a more earthly level, Ethel knew a thing or two about adultery and the weakness of the flesh, so she gave Susan a free pass on that. In other words, Ethel and Susan had something in common; to wit, they’d both crossed the Do Not Diddle line. These were two very different cases, of course, with far different results, but the bottom line was a pair of men’s shoes under their beds that didn’t belong there.

I was a little annoyed and said to her, hypothetically, “Would George have forgiven you if you-?”

“He did.”

“Oh…” I never thought that George knew about Augustus. Well, George was a forgiving soul, and I’m not. Plus, George got the free housing. I reminded her, “This subject is finished.” I looked at my watch and said, “Perhaps I’d better be going.”

“As you wish.”

I stood, but didn’t leave. Instead, I walked to the window and stared out toward the sinking sun. From here, I could see a glimpse of the Sound between the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the water.

“What do you see?”

I glanced back at Ethel.

“Tell me what you see.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I see sunlight sparkling on the water. I see trees, and the leaves are glistening from the rain. I see the sky clearing, and white clouds blowing across the horizon. I can see the head of Hempstead Harbor, and boats, and I see land across the Sound, and there are flights of gulls circling over the water.”

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I should have noticed it more.”

“We all should.”

Neither of us spoke for a full minute, then I moved to her bedside.

She was clutching the stuffed bear, and I saw tears in her eyes.

I took a tissue from the box and patted her cheeks. She took my hand and said, “Thank you for coming, John.”

Her hand was very cold and dry, and this, more than her appearance, made me aware that she was closer to death than to life.

She squeezed my hand and said, “I never liked you, you know.”

I smiled and replied, “I know.”

“But I respected you.”

Deathbed confessions are admissible as evidence, and deemed to be truthful, so I said, “Thank you.”

She further confessed, “You’re a good man. There are not many left.”

I agreed with that, and said, “You are a lady.”

“You’re lost, John. Find your way home.”

“I’m trying.”

“Call her. And call your mother. And your children. Reach out to those you love, or once loved.”

“I will.”

She squeezed my hand again, and said, “Goodbye.”

I returned the grasp, then let go of her hand and moved away from the bed. Then I turned back, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek.

I left the room quickly and headed to the elevator.

CHAPTER TEN

I exited Fair Haven Hospice House into the bright sunlight, and took a deep breath of fresh air, glad I was out of there, but happy I went.

Though Ethel and I never cared for each other, she’d been one of my last links to a long-ago past, and a link to George, whom I liked very much. So, to be honest, I was feeling a little sad.

Also disturbing were Ethel’s mentions of Susan. I was perfectly happy carrying around a grudge, and I didn’t want to hear that Susan was… well, whatever.

On that subject, it occurred to me that Susan could be coming here for a visit, and I didn’t want to bump into her, so I kept an eye out as I made my way to the parking area.

Also, I could imagine my mother coming to see her old socialist buddy. In America, politics crosses all lines – class, race, ethnicity, and levels of intelligence.

And regarding Harriet Sutter, I should explain, in my defense, that I’m not a bad son; she was a bad mother, more interested in saving the world than in raising her two children. My father was a decent if distant man, but his wife ran his life, and Harriet made little time for me, Emily, or my children. Oddly, though, Harriet was and remains close to crazy Susan, and Susan’s betrayal of me did not cause Harriet to change her favorable opinion of Susan; in fact, my mother suggested to me that I try to understand why Susan “strayed,” as she called it (I call it fucking another guy), and she also suggested counseling so that I could better comprehend my own failings, which may have led to Susan’s unfulfilled whatever.

I mean, pure bullshit. I could almost hear Ethel Allard and Harriet Sutter chatting over tea, wondering why silly John had his shorts in a knot over an unfortunate lapse of judgment by poor, sweet Susan. Ethel, I can forgive. My mother, never.

Anyway, the other person I didn’t want to run into was the Reverend James Hunnings, who was annoyingly cordial to me, and to everyone who disliked him. Hunnings always spoke as though he was on stage, and there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice or heart. But if I did see him, I’d drop a little hint that Ethel had put St. Mark’s in her will. Then I’d wink and nod.

I made it to the parking area without running into anyone, and I was about to get into my car when I heard a car door close, and a female voice said, “John Sutter.”

That’s me, so I turned and saw Elizabeth Allard coming toward me, carrying a small pastry box.

I walked toward her and said, “Elizabeth. How are you?”

We shook hands, then, by mutual consent, engaged in a clumsy hug.

She said to me, “You look great, John.”

“So do you.” In fact, she was, as I said, an attractive woman, and when she was younger, she’d looked like her mother in that wedding picture above the fireplace. As I also said, she looked enough like George so that I didn’t have to worry that she was my… what? Ex-wife’s grandfather’s illegitimate daughter, making her my children’s blood relative of some sort – and a possible Stanhope heir.

Actually, I realized that Elizabeth’s age would not comport with her mother’s World War II affair. But what if Augustus got in a post-war pop? Is that a Stanhope nose?

“Are you coming or going?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh… well, I never know.”

She smiled.

Stanhope mouth?

I said, “I’ve just come from your mother’s room. She looks well.”

“It’s very nice of you to visit.”

“Well… I’ve known your mother for a very long time.” I smiled and added, “We lived together once.”

Elizabeth returned the smile, then said, “John, I’m sorry about your father. I should have sent you a card.”

I replied, “I was at sea.”

“I know… that must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was.” And my mother made it more difficult. I wonder if she ever understood the irony of her calling me a son of a bitch.

Elizabeth said, “I meant to write to you when you got to London. I got your address from your mother.”

“Did you?” I wondered if Elizabeth asked for my address, or if it was offered. Probably the former, knowing Harriet. In any case, Elizabeth hadn’t written that condolence note, but if she had, what would she have said? Dear John, Sorry you couldn’t make your father’s funeral. Everyone was asking about you.

I was still feeling a little guilty after eight years, so I said, “I learned of my father’s death a month after it happened.”

She nodded.

I continued, “I’m going to visit his grave before I return.”

Again, she nodded and changed the subject by asking, “So, how is London?”

“Good.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m not sure.” I also wasn’t sure of my relationship with Elizabeth. Were we family friends as a result of me knowing her father and mother for decades? Or were we acquaintances because I’d hardly ever seen her, except now and then in the village and at a few social and family functions? I said, “Sorry to hear about your divorce.”

She shrugged and replied, “It was for the best.”

Elizabeth Allard, daughter of estate workers, had married well. His name was Tom Corbet, and he came from what’s called a “good family.” He’s a Yalie, like I am, and he worked on Wall Street, as I did, and in my past life I’d see him on the train now and then. Elizabeth, I recalled, used her maiden name for business, but socially she was Mrs. Corbet. Mr. and Mrs. Corbet had two children, a girl and a boy, both of whom must be in college now or graduated. Tom Corbet, by the way, was a crashing bore, and the only interesting thing about him was that he’d gone gay some years ago, so, yes, the divorce was probably for the best.

Elizabeth added, in case I didn’t know, “Tom has a boyfriend.”

“Right. Well…” That must have been very difficult for her when Tom sat her down and told her there was another man. I mean, that should have been her line.

She changed the subject and said to me, “Sorry about you and Susan.”

“Oh, did you hear about that?”

She suppressed a laugh and reminded me, “It was national news.”

“That’s right. It’s been so long.” Elizabeth owned three or four upscale clothing boutiques in the nearby villages, so I asked her, “How’s business?”

She replied, “Not too bad, considering the stock market has gone to hell, and people have been putting their money into hazmat suits and freeze-dried rations since 9/11 and the anthrax thing.” She smiled and continued, “Maybe I should carry designer gas masks.”

I smiled in return. I don’t usually notice women’s clothing, unless it’s really outrageous, but I recalled that Elizabeth used to dress conservatively, despite some of the weird stuff I’d seen in her shops years ago when Susan had dragged me into them. Today, however, Elizabeth had left her severely tailored business suits in the closet – or perhaps Tom took them – and she was wearing a frilly pink blouse that accentuated her tan, and a black silk skirt that didn’t reach her knees. Maybe she felt that her formerly mannish attire had been the reason that Tom… well, I shouldn’t speculate on that, but-

She interrupted my train of thought and said, apropos of her statement about hazmat suits and gas masks, “People are such wimps.” She asked, “What’s wrong with this country?”

“I don’t know. I just got here.”

I should also mention that Elizabeth was a local Republican activist, to the extent that Republicans around here engaged in any activity other than golf and drinking.

In any case, her politics, like her membership in The Creek Country Club and the Locust Valley Chamber of Commerce, may have been driven more by business than conviction. Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s affiliations had caused Ethel no end of grief and bewilderment, and I could imagine Ethel crying to George, “How could a child of mine be a Republican?” Adding, “It’s your fault, George!”

Elizabeth asked me, “What are they saying in London?”

“They’re saying they’re next.”

She nodded.

Elizabeth Allard Corbet, by the way, had wavy chestnut hair that she wore shoulder length, nice big brown eyes, a nose with slightly flared nostrils (like George’s), and lush lips that, now and then, flashed a slightly amused smile. Bottom line, she was a good-looking woman with a cultured voice and manner – the result of being an estate brat.

Men, of course, found her attractive, though she never rang my bell (and apparently not Tom’s), and women, too, seemed to like her. Susan, I remembered, liked her.

On that subject, against my better judgment, I said, “I assume you know that Susan is back.”

She replied, without any silly pretense of ignorance, “Yes. I’ve seen her here a few times. We actually had lunch once.” She asked me, “Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

“I don’t – but I probably will.”

There was a lot more to talk about on that subject, if I cared to, and I was sure Elizabeth, like her mother, had things to tell me about Susan. But the last thing I wanted was for people to be carrying messages and information back and forth between the estranged parties. So I dropped the subject and asked, “How are your children?”

“Fine. Tom Junior is a senior at Brown, and Betsy graduated Smith and is in an MFA program at Penn.”

“You must be very proud of them.”

“I am.” She smiled. “Except for their politics. I think bleeding-heart liberalism skips a generation. Mom, however, is delighted.”

I smiled in return.

She informed me, “Susan has filled me in on Edward and Carolyn.”

“Good.”

On the subject of genes versus environment, Elizabeth could be a little severe and strong-willed at times, like her mother, but mostly she was quietly pleasant and straightforward, like her father, with her father’s strong work ethic. And did I mention that she’d gone to Bryn Mawr, all expenses paid by her secret and perhaps reluctant godfather, Augustus Stanhope? Augustus’ rolls in the hay barn with Ethel had cost him a few more bucks than he’d figured, and possibly a few sleepless nights.

Things were different then, of course, in regard to social and sexual rules of behavior; but even today adultery isn’t acceptable, and carries a high price tag. Ask Susan Sutter. Or John. Or Frank Bellarosa… Well, he’s not talking.

Elizabeth said to me, “Now that Mom is… at the end… I’m thinking more about Dad. I really miss him.”

“I do, too.”

George Allard and I could have been considered friends, except for the artificial and anachronistic class barrier, which was enforced more by George than by me. George, like many old-school servants, had been more royal than the King, and he truly believed that the local gentry were his social superiors; however, whenever they slacked off or behaved badly (which was often), George respectfully reminded them of their obligations as gentlemen, and he would gently but firmly suggest corrections to their behavior and manners. I think I was a challenge to him, and we didn’t become close until he gave up on me.

Elizabeth suggested, “If you have time, why don’t you come up with me – or wait for me? I’m staying only fifteen minutes tonight. Then, if you’d like, we can go for a drink.” She added, in case I was misinterpreting the offer, “I’d like to speak to you about Mom’s will, and whatever else I need to speak to you about.”

I replied, “I do need to speak to you. You are, as you know, the executrix of her estate, and her sole heir, aside from a few minor bequests. But unfortunately, I have plans this evening.”

“Oh… well…”

Actually, I had time to at least walk her to the front door, but I kept thinking that Susan, my mother, or Father Hunnings might pull up. On the other hand, that might not be a bad thing. I could imagine some interesting reactions from my ex-wife, ex-mother, and ex-priest if they saw me talking to the attractive divorcée.

To get another rumor mill going, I should have said, “I’m having dinner with a Mafia don,” but, in a Freudian slip, I said, “I’m having dinner with a business prospect.”

“Oh. Does that mean you’re staying?”

“I’m not sure.” I suggested, “How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”

“No… I’m having dinner with friends.” She smiled. “Thursday is ladies’ night out. But you’re welcome to join us for a drink.”

“Uh… perhaps not.” I considered asking her to dinner Friday night, but that would sound like a weekend date instead of a weekday business dinner, so I said, “I’d like you to do a quick inventory of the personal property – Mom and Dad’s – and look over some paperwork. Also, your mother asked that you… find the dress she wants to wear… so, why don’t you come to the house on Saturday or Sunday?”

“Saturday afternoon would be good. Would four o’clock work?”

“Yes. I’ll be sure my estate gate is open.”

She smiled and said, “I have the code.” She informed me, “You are sleeping in my room.”

“I know.”

“I’d like to see it, one last time. Is that all right?”

“Do I need to clean it?”

“No. If it was clean, I wouldn’t recognize it.”

I smiled. She smiled.

I suggested, “If you have a van or station wagon, we can get some personal things moved out.”

She replied, “I have that.” She nodded toward a big SUV of some sort. Maybe these things ate the other cars. She asked, “Will that do?”

“It should. Or we can make a few trips.” I added, “You should arrange for a mover for the furniture.”

“All right.” She suddenly asked me, “John, do you think I should buy the gatehouse? Is it for sale?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Nasim. Why would you want to buy it?”

She shrugged. “Nostalgia. Maybe I’d live there. I don’t need the big house in Mill Neck. The kids are gone. I got the house in the divorce. Tom got my shoes and purses.” She smiled and said, “Or I could rent the gatehouse to you, if you stayed.”

I smiled in return.

She looked at her watch and said, “I should go. So, I’ll see you Saturday, about four.”

“Right. If there is any change, you know the number.”

“Do you have a cell?”

“Not in the U.S.”

“Okay…” She handed me the pastry box, then fished around in her purse, found a business card, and wrote on the card, saying, “My home number and my cell.”

I exchanged the card for the pastry box and said, “See you Saturday.”

“Thanks, John, for all you’re doing for Mom.”

“It’s nothing.”

“And what you did for Dad. I never properly thanked you.”

“He was a good man.”

“He thought the world of you.” She added, “And your father was a good man, and he… he understood what you were going through.”

I didn’t reply, and we did a quick hug and air kiss. She turned, took a few steps, then looked back and said, “Oh, I have a letter for you from Mom. I’ll bring it Saturday.”

“Okay.”

I watched her walking quickly toward the hospice house, then I turned and got into my rental car.

As I drove down the lane toward the road, I replayed the conversation, as people do who are trying to extract some meaning beyond the words spoken. I also analyzed her body language and demeanor, but Elizabeth was not easy to read; or, maybe, as several women have told me, I miss the subtleties. If a woman says, “Let’s have a drink and talk business,” I actually think it’s about business. It’s a wonder I ever got laid.

Anyway, on to my next adventure: dinner with don Anthony Bellarosa.

Ethel, Elizabeth, Anthony. And, eventually, Susan.

An individual life passes through a continuum of time and space, but now and then you enter a warp that sucks you back into the past. You understand what’s going on because you’ve been there before; but that’s no guarantee that you’re going to get it right this time. In fact, experience is just another word for baggage. And memory carries the bags.

More importantly – egg drop or wonton? Chopsticks or fork?

I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I noticed a big American flag decal displayed in the front window of Wong Lee’s, next to the credit card decals. I also noticed Tony (formerly known as Anthony) sitting in the driver’s seat of the big black SUV I’d seen a few nights earlier on Grace Lane. The windows were tinted, but the driver’s window was down, and I didn’t see Anthony Bellarosa (formerly known as Tony) inside the vehicle.

Tony spotted me and shouted, “Hey! Mistah Sutta! Hey! It’s me! Tony. How ya doin’?”

It would have been difficult for me – or anyone within half a mile – to ignore him, so I walked toward the SUV and said, in my best St. Paul’s accent, “I’m doing very well. Thank you for asking.”

“Hey, you look great.” He reached through the window, we shook hands, then he opened the door and jumped out. He wanted to shake again, so we did, and he said, “The boss is inside, waitin’ for ya.”

I glanced at my watch and saw I was fifteen minutes early. Frank Bellarosa, a graduate of La Salle Military Academy, once advised me, apropos of meetings and battles, “Like General Nathan Bedford Forrest said, Counselor, ‘Get there firstest with the mostest.’” Probably Frank had passed that on to his son, and that made me wonder how much Anthony had learned at the knee of his father before Frank’s life and Anthony’s education had been cut short. And, I wondered, how much was in the blood?

Tony inquired, “So whaddaya been up to?”

“Same old shit.”

“Yeah? You look great.”

I think we covered that, and I wished I could say the same about Tony, but he’d aged in ten years, a result, possibly, of job stress. Nevertheless, I said, “You’re looking good, Anthony. Well-”

“Tony.”

“Right.”

He took a pack of cigarettes from his black sweatsuit warmup jacket and offered me one, which I declined.

He lit up and said, “The boss says no smokin’ in the car.”

“Good rule.” The SUV, I now noticed, had the Cadillac logo on the hubs, and the word “Escalade” on the front door. There was an American flag decal on the side window. If I could see the rear bumper, I’m sure the bumper stickers would say, “Suburban Mafia,” and “My kid can kill your honor student.”

Tony took a drag, then returned to his subject, saying, “You can’t fuckin’ smoke no place no more.”

It’s been a while since I’ve heard compound double negatives interspersed with the F-word, and I actually smiled.

Tony, by the way, was dressed in running shoes and the aforementioned black sweatsuit ensemble. Frank Bellarosa would have fired him on the spot. Or fired at him.

Interestingly, Tony sported an American flag pin on his warmup jacket, which at first surprised me, then did not. The Mafia always considered themselves loyal and patriotic Americans.

“So,” Tony inquired, “how’s Mrs. Sutta?”

“I have no idea.”

I should mention that Susan was a favorite with the late don’s goons, and she in turn found them exotic or something, including their totally whorish girlfriends. I didn’t share her fascination with these characters, and she called me a snob. I’m quite certain that Tony had changed his opinion of Mrs. Sutter after she capped the don.

“You ain’t seen her?”

I didn’t like him asking about her, and I replied, “No. All right, good seeing you-”

“Hey. Those were the days. Right?”

“Right.”

“You, me, the don, God rest his soul, that scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, and Vinnie, God rest his soul.”

A scorecard would show three dead and two living. The don, God rest his soul, had been killed by you-know-who, and Vinnie, God rest his soul, had his head blown off with a shotgun, and scumbag Lenny, may he rot in hell, was Frank’s driver, and also the guy who dropped a dime on Frank, resulting in the Saturday night shoot-out at Giulio’s in Little Italy. Lenny had sped off with the two hit men in Frank’s stretch Caddy, but he was later found by the police in the car’s trunk at Newark Airport with a garrote around his neck – which reminded me, if I needed reminding, that these people played for keeps, and could not be trusted.

I said to Tony, “Those were the days.”

“Yeah. Hey, remember that morning when the Feds came for the boss? That little wop, Mancuso. Remember that?”

The gentleman in question was FBI Special Agent Felix Mancuso, with whom I’d had some prior conversations about me working for Frank Bellarosa, and who, despite that fact, liked me. Mr. Mancuso had shown up at Alhambra to arrest don Frank Bellarosa for the murder of the Colombian drug lord, and Frank knew this was coming, so I was there as his attorney, and Lenny and Vinnie were there to look tough, and Tony, I recalled, was in the Alhambra gatehouse. Felix Mancuso had come alone, without an army of agents, to show Frank Bellarosa that his balls were at least as big as Frank’s. But before Mancuso put the cuffs on Frank, he took me aside and tried to save my soul, telling me to get my life together and get away from Bellarosa before it was too late. Good advice, but it was already too late.

And here I stood now, at the threshold of perhaps another great folly, and I realized I could choose not to walk into Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.

Tony said, “Hey, I’m keepin’ ya. Go ’head. Third booth on the right.”

I turned and walked toward the restaurant.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Third booth on the right.

Wong Lee’s hadn’t changed much in ten years, or in thirty years, for that matter, and the décor could best be described as 1970s Chinese restaurant.

Anthony was sitting facing the door, as is customary for men in his profession. He had good lines of sight and fields of fire, except for his rear, which seemed unsecured, unless there was another goombah back there somewhere.

He was talking on his cell phone, holding it in his left hand, so that his right hand was free to nibble fried wontons or pull his gun.

Well, maybe I’m overanalyzing his choice of seating; I mean, it’s a Chinese restaurant in a suburban town, for goodness’ sake. Did you ever see a headline saying, Mafia Boss Hit in Chinese Restaurant?

On the other hand, based on Anthony’s cautious behavior in front of the gatehouse, it was very possible that he knew he was on somebody’s clip list. And I’m having dinner with this guy? You would think I should have learned my lesson at Giulio’s.

Anthony had seen me as soon as I opened the door, and he was smiling and waving his free gun hand as he kept talking. He was wearing another version of the awful shirt he’d had on the other night, but this time he wore an electric blue sports jacket over it.

The hostess noticed we were paesanos, and escorted me to the booth saying, “You sit with your friend.”

Then why am I being seated here?

Anthony was still chatting, but he stuck out his hand and we shook. He said into the phone, “Okay… okay… I’m sorry… yeah… okay…”

Wife or mother.

He continued, “Yeah… he’s here, Ma. He wants to say hello… yeah… here… Ma… Ma…” He covered the mouthpiece and said to me, “You know why Italian mothers make great parole officers? They never let anyone finish a sentence.” He handed me the phone and said, “My mother wants to say hello.”

I hate when people hand me a phone to say hello to someone I don’t want to say hello to, but I liked Anna Bellarosa, so I put the phone to my ear and heard her say, “All the Italian restaurants in Glen Cove, and you take him to the Chinks? You don’t think, Tony. Your father knew how to think. You-”

“Anna, hi, this is-”

“Who’s this?”

“John Sutter. How are you?”

“John! Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you. Oh my God. John, how are you?”

“I’m-”

“Tony says you look great.”

“Anthony.”

“Who?”

“Your son-”

“Tony. Tony says he saw you the other night. He says you’re living here now.”

“Well, I-”

“Why don’t you go to Stanco’s? Why are you eating at the Chinks?”

“Chinese was my idea. So, you’re back in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah. In the old neighborhood. Williamsburg. Since Frank… oh my God, John. Do you believe he’s dead?”

Actually, yes.

“It’s ten years, John, ten years since my Frank…” She let out a sigh, followed by a little sob, caught her breath, then continued, “Nothing is the same without Frank.”

That’s good news.

She went into a brief eulogy of her deceased husband, which sounded well-practiced, emphasizing his qualities as a father, and said, “The boys miss him. In a few weeks is Father’s Day, John. The boys take me to the cemetery every Father’s Day. They cry at his grave.”

“It must be very sad for them.”

She let me know how sad it was. She didn’t say anything specific about Frank as a perfect husband, but neither did she say anything negative, of course, nor would she ever.

The last time I’d seen her was at Frank’s funeral, and she hadn’t looked good in black with mascara running down her face. In fact, though, she’d been an attractive woman in a fertility goddess sort of way – full-bodied, big-busted, good skin under the makeup, big eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. I wondered what ten years and widowhood had done to her.

As Anna prattled on, I glanced at Anthony, who seemed to have tuned out and was absently stirring his beverage, which looked and smelled like a Scotch on the rocks. I got his attention and motioned to his drink. He nodded and summoned the waitress.

Anna Bellarosa was going on about life without her sainted husband, avoiding any mention of my then-wife putting three.38 caliber slugs into dear Frank.

It happened, incidentally, on the mezzanine that overlooked the palm court atrium at Alhambra. Frank had been wearing a bathrobe, and when he went over the railing and hit the red-tiled floor below, his bathrobe flew open, and when I saw him, he wasn’t wearing anything under his black silk robe, and it occurred to me now that this image of him had somehow transferred itself to my dream in another form.

Anna was saying, “He loved you, John. He really did.”

Then why was he fucking my wife?

“He always told me how smart you were. How you helped him when they tried to make up charges against him.”

Ironically, Frank Bellarosa would have been safer in jail. “Well, I was just doing what he paid me to do.” And he still owes me fifty thousand dollars.

“No. You did it because you loved him.”

“Right.” Or did I write off the fifty thousand and chalk it up to experience? I seem to remember that the Feds had seized all his assets and his checkbooks.

Anna was rambling on. The waitress came, a very young Chinese lady, and I tapped Anthony’s glass and pointed to myself, so she pushed Anthony’s glass in front of me.

Anthony seemed not amused and snatched his glass back, then barked an order for two Dewar’s, and mumbled in Italian, “Stonata,” which I recalled means something like “bubble brain.”

Out of nowhere, Anna asked, “Why did she do it, John?”

“Uh…”

“John. Why?”

“Uh… well…” Well, because they were having a lover’s quarrel. But I didn’t think Anna wanted to hear that. I mean, she had to know – it was in all the newspapers, as I recall, not to mention radio and television, and supermarket tabloids – so it was a silly question.

“She didn’t have to do it, John.”

“I know.” But Frank had made promises to her, then broke those promises, and Susan, not used to being scorned, shot him.

By the time I saw him, the blood around his three bullet holes had coagulated like red custard, and the wound in his groin was in his pubic hair, and his genitals were covered with clotted blood. His skull had hit the hard floor with such force that a splatter of blood radiated out from his head like a halo. His eyes were still open, so I closed them, which ticked off the CSI people and the crime scene photographers.

“John? Did she tell you why?”

“No.” Actually, she did, but she was lying.

Anna asked me, “Why is she back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see her?”

“No.”

“She should burn in hell for what she did.”

I was getting a little annoyed at Anna’s suggestion that her sainted husband, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa, was the innocent victim of an evil, cold-blooded murderess. I mean, come on, Anna. Your husband was a notorious Mafia don, probably himself a murderer, and for sure an adulterer who screwed more women than he’d had spaghetti dinners at home. So, to use a phrase she’d understand, I should have said, “What goes around, comes around.” And furthermore, Anna, if anyone is burning in hell, it’s your husband. But instead, I said, “Okay, Anna – Tony wants to speak-”

“You shouldn’t eat there. You don’t know what they put in the food.”

“Right. Okay-”

“Next time you’re in Brooklyn, you stop by for coffee or come to Tony’s house for dinner. Next Sunday. I’ll cook.”

“Thank you. Take care.” I added, “Ciao,” and handed the cell phone back to Anthony, who will always be Tony to Momma.

He said into the phone, “Yeah, Ma. I gotta – okay, okay. Stanco’s.” He listened, then said, “I’ll tell her to call you. She’s busy with the kids, Ma. You can call her-”

Poor Tony. Harriet Sutter was starting to look good.

He finally hung up, slammed the phone on the table, downed the rest of his Scotch, and said, “What’s the difference between an Italian mother and a Rottweiler?”

“What?”

“Eventually, the Rottweiler lets go.”

I smiled.

Anthony lit a cigarette and stayed silent awhile, then asked me, “What was she saying?”

“Your father.”

He nodded, and we dropped that subject, or, I was certain, tabled it for later.

The waitress brought the two Scotches and correctly put one glass in front of each of us, then inquired, “You want order now?”

Anthony informed her, “We don’t have a friggin’ menu.” He added, “Cretina.”

Maybe I should have suggested Stanco’s.

Anthony raised his glass and I raised mine. We clinked, and he said, “Salute,” and I said, “Cheers.”

He said, apropos of Mom, “She and Megan – that’s my wife – they don’t get along.”

“That can be difficult.”

“Yeah. Difficult. Megan, you know, she’s Irish, and they have different… what do you call it…?”

“Ethnic traditions? Cultural practices?”

“Yeah. Anyway, it’s not like I married a melanzana or something.”

“Right.” That means eggplant, which one would not normally marry, but it’s also Italian slang for a black person. It was all coming back to me. Check, please.

On the subject of marital bliss in the ’burbs, and because I was curious, I asked him, “How do you like living in Alhambra Estates?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay… but I’d like to move back to the city.” He delivered a hot piece of news by saying, “There’s a million good-looking broads in New York.”

“That shouldn’t interest a married man.”

He thought that was funny. He said, “I almost got her to move into the city, but after 9/11, forget it.”

I said, “This is a good place to raise children.”

“Yeah. I got two. A boy, Frank, five years old, and a girl, Kelly Ann – Ann for my mother. Kelly is Megan’s mother’s maiden name.” He continued, “My mother – you know how they are” – he did a bad impersonation of Mom’s voice – “‘Tony, what’s this Kelly name? The only Kellys I know in Williamsburg are drunks.’” He laughed, then realizing he’d broken the rule on revealing anything negative about la famiglia, he said, “Forget that.”

Returning to the subject of life in the country, he said to me, “Do you know that the road that runs by the estates is private? Grace Lane is private.”

“I do know that.”

“Yeah, well, it was falling apart, and those cheap bastards along the road didn’t want to repave it. So I got one of my companies to do it as a favor to everybody.”

That was interesting, and it revealed something about Anthony. His father didn’t care what anyone thought about him, as long as they respected him and feared him. Anthony seemed to be looking for acceptance. But it’s really hard for narrow-minded suburbanites to accept a Mafia don as a neighbor. I mean, I had a problem with that myself. I said to him, “That was very nice of you.”

“Yeah. Do you think I got a thank-you? Not one fucking thank-you.”

“Well, I thank you. The road looks good.”

“Fuck them. I should tear it up.”

“Hold up on that. Maybe they’re planning a surprise party for you.”

“Yeah? Maybe I got a surprise for them.”

Don’t whack your neighbors, Anthony. Your kids have enough problems with Dad being a Mafia guy. I hesitated, then asked him, “Did the developer save the reflecting pool and the statue of Neptune?”

“Huh…? Oh, yeah, I remember that when I was a kid. There was, like, make-believe Roman ruins, and gardens and stuff. That was some place. You remember that?”

“I do. Is it still there?”

“Nah. It’s all gone. Just houses. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“Yeah. I loved that place.” He informed me, “I went skinny-dipping once in the pool.” He smiled. “With the college girl who my father hired to be my tutor.”

“What subject?”

He laughed, then seemed lost in that memory, so I took the opportunity to think about how to get the hell out of here. I also looked around to see if there was anyone in Wong Lee’s whom I knew. Or anyone who looked like the FBI.

The restaurant was mostly empty, except for a few families with kids, and people waiting for takeout orders. Then I noticed a guy sitting by himself in a booth on the other side, facing toward the back of the restaurant.

Anthony noticed my interest in the gentleman and said, “He’s with me.”

“Good.” So we had interlocking fields of fire if a situation developed. That made me feel much better. More to the point, Mr. Bellarosa was definitely in full security mode. I looked back at him, and it appeared to me now that under his loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt was quite possibly a Kevlar vest. This is what had saved his father’s life at Giulio’s. Maybe I should ask if he had an extra vest.

If I wanted to speculate on what or who was making Anthony jumpy, I’d guess it was Sally Da-da. Though why this should be happening now, after ten years, was a mystery. So maybe it was someone else. The only way I’d know for sure is if the same two guys with shotguns who were at Giulio’s suddenly appeared at the table and blew Anthony’s head off. Maybe I should order takeout.

The waitress brought the menus, and we looked at them. He asked me, “You like Chinese?”

“Sometimes.”

“I dated a Chinese girl once, and an hour after I ate her, I was hungry again.” He laughed. “Get it?”

“Got it.” I studied the menu more intensely and took a long swig of Scotch.

He continued, “So I was dating this Chinese girl, and one night, we’re making out hot and heavy, and I said to her, ‘I want sixty-nine,’ and she says, ‘Oh, you want beef and broccoli now?’” He laughed again. “Get it?”

“Got it.”

“You got one?”

“Not one that comes to mind.”

“I once heard my father say to somebody that you were a funny guy.”

In fact, Frank appreciated my sarcasm, irony, and humor, even when he was the butt of it. I wasn’t sure that his son was as thick-skinned or as bright, but the jury was still out on Anthony’s brain power. I said, “Your father brought out the best of my wit.”

The waitress returned, and I ordered wonton soup and beef and broccoli, which made Anthony laugh. He ordered sixty-nine, which was not on the menu, and settled for what I was having. He also ordered another round of Scotch, and a clean ashtray, and I asked for chopsticks.

He said to me, “You know why wives like Chinese food?”

“No. Why?”

“Because wonton spelled backwards is not now.”

I hoped that exhausted his repertoire.

I noticed that Anthony, like Tony, had a flag pin on the lapel of his sports jacket, and my recollection of Frank and his friends was that they exhibited a sort of primitive, jingoistic patriotism, based for the most part on xenophobia, racism, and a lingering immigrant culture that said, “America is a great country.”

Indeed it is, and despite some serious problems, I was seeing it more clearly now after three years of wandering the globe, and seven years in London. I mean, England was a good place for self-exiled Americans, but it wasn’t home, and I suddenly realized that I was home. So maybe I should stop playing the part of the ex-pat on a brief visit to the States.

As though reading my mind, Anthony asked me, “So, how long you staying?”

This, I guess, was the threshold question whose answer would determine if we had any business to discuss. So I needed to carefully consider my answer.

He asked me, “You still up in the air on that?”

“I’m… leaning toward staying.”

“Good. No reason to go back.” He added, “This is where the action is.”

Actually, that was a good reason to return to London.

Anthony suddenly reached into his pocket, and I thought he was pulling his gun, but instead he produced a flag pin and set it down in front of me. He said, “If you’re staying, you want to wear this.”

I left it lying on the table and said, “Thank you.”

Anthony instructed, “Put it on your lapel.” He tapped the flag on his lapel, but when I didn’t follow instructions, he leaned forward and stuck the flag on the left lapel of my blue blazer. He said, “There you go. Now you’re an American again.”

I informed him, “My family has been in America for over three hundred years.”

“No shit?” He inquired, “Why’d they wait so long after Columbus discovered America?”

Further on the subject of history, Anthony informed me, “I majored in history.” He added, “I went to college for a year. NYU. I fucked my brains out.”

I could see that.

“I read a lot about the Romans. That shit interests me. How about you?”

I informed him, “I took eight years of Latin, and I could read Cicero, Seneca, and Ovid in classical Latin.”

“No shit?”

“Then, in my senior year of college, I got hit in the head with a baseball, and now I can read only Italian.”

He thought that was funny, then got serious and said, “What I’m getting at is I see this country like Rome, when the Empire was in serious trouble. Understand?”

I didn’t reply.

“Like, the days of the Republic are over. Now we’re like an imperial power, so every asshole out there wants to take a shot at us. Right? Like those fucks on 9/11. Plus, we can’t control our borders, like the Romans couldn’t, so we got ten million illegals who can’t even speak the fucking language and don’t give a shit about the country. They just want a piece of the action. And the assholes in Washington sit around and argue, like the Roman Senate, and the fucking country is going to hell with weirdos screaming about their rights, and the fucking barbarians are at the border.”

“What book was that in?”

He ignored me and continued his riff. “The fucking bureaucrats are up our asses, the men in this country act like women, and the women act like men, and all anyone cares about is bread and circuses. You see what I’m saying?”

“I know the argument, Anthony.” I gave him some good news and said, “At least organized crime is almost eradicated.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, then said, “You think?”

Anthony was a perfect example of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. Regarding the purpose of this dinner, I asked him, “So, what would you like to know about your father?”

He lit another cigarette, sat back, then said, “I just want you to tell me… like, how you met. Why you decided to do business. I mean… why would a guy like you… you know, get involved in a criminal case?”

“You mean organized crime?”

He wasn’t about to go there. I mean, like, you know, there is no Mafia. No Cosa Nostra. Whaddaya talkin’ about?

Anthony reminded me, “You defended him on a murder charge, which, as you know, Counselor, was bullshit.” He asked me again, “So, how did you and my father get together and wind up doing business?”

I replied, “It was mostly a personal relationship.” I added, “We clicked, and he needed some help.”

“Yeah? But why did you stick your neck out?”

Anthony was testing the water to see what motivated me – why I hooked up with the mob, so to speak, and what it would take for me to do it again. In his world, the answer was money and power, but maybe he understood that in my world, it was more complex.

I replied, “I told you the other night – he did me a favor and I was repaying the favor.” Also, the whole truth was that Frank Bellarosa, in cahoots with my wife, played the macho card, i.e., Frank had a gun and a set of balls, and nice guy John had a pen and a good intellect. They were very subtle about that, of course, but this challenge to my manhood worked well. Plus, I was bored, and Susan knew that. What she didn’t know was that Frank Bellarosa also appealed to my darker side; evil is very seductive, which Susan discovered too late.

I said to Anthony, “Your father was a very charismatic man, and very persuasive.” Plus, he was screwing my wife so he could get to me through her, though I didn’t know that at the time.

And I don’t think Susan knew that, either. She probably thought that Frank was interested only in her. In fact, Frank was partly motivated by the convenience of pillow talk with his attorney’s wife, not to mention the thrill of screwing an uppity society bitch. But on another level, probably against his will, Frank felt something for Susan Sutter.

Anthony said, with some insight, “My father had a way of picking the right people. Like, he knew what they wanted, and he showed them how they could get it.”

I recalled learning about a guy like that in Sunday school, named Lucifer.

As per the supposed reason for this dinner, Anthony asked me a few questions regarding my personal memories of his father.

I answered by relating a few anecdotes that I thought would give him some nice snapshots of Pop.

I then recounted my and Susan’s first visit to Alhambra, at Frank’s invitation for coffee, and how I enjoyed Anna’s hospitality and warmth. I didn’t share with Anthony that I was royally ticked off at Susan for accepting the invitation, or that my impressions of the Bellarosas as my new Gold Coast next-door-mansion neighbors were not entirely favorable. In fact, I was horrified. But also a little intrigued, as was Susan.

In any case, I kept it light and positive, skipping over my subsequent seduction by Frank Bellarosa, and Frank’s seduction of my wife (or vice versa), and our final descent into hell. That might be a little complicated for Anthony, and none of his business.

This all took about fifteen minutes, during which my wonton soup came and sat there, while I sipped Scotch and Anthony smoked, flipped ashes on the floor, and said very little.

When I’d finished, I said, “So, that’s about it.” I added, “I was sorry for what happened, and I want you to know that I share your grief, and that of your mother, brothers, and your whole family.”

Anthony nodded.

I announced, “I’m not really hungry, and I have a lot of work to do at home, so thanks for the drinks.” I reached for my wallet and said, “Let me split the bill.”

He seemed surprised that I’d actually want to forgo his company, and asked, “What’s your rush?”

“I just told you.”

“Have another drink.” He called out to the waitress, “Two more!” then asked me, “You want a cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

That settled, he returned to a prior subject and asked, “Hey, how did you let the Feds grab Alhambra? I mean, you do this for a living. Right?”

“Right. You win some, you lose some.” I added, “Even Jesus said to give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s.”

“Yeah, but Jesus was a nice guy, and he didn’t have a tax lawyer. Or a criminal attorney.” Anthony smiled and continued, “That’s why he got nailed.”

I reminded him, “I was on my way to beating the murder charge.”

“Yeah, okay, but if my father didn’t do anything criminal, then how did they get his property?”

“I told you. Tax evasion.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s criminal.” The truth was, as I said, and as Anthony surely knew, the Justice Department and the IRS had enough real and manufactured evidence on Frank Bellarosa to make his life a living hell. Plus, Frank’s own brother-in-law, Sally Da-da – Anna’s sister’s husband – had tried to whack Frank, and Frank’s aura of power and strength was waning. So he took the easy way out and accepted the government’s deal. To wit: Tell us about every crime you ever committed, Frank, and give us the names of your hoodlum friends. Then you abdicate your title, give us all your money, and you can go into exile a free man. Not a bad deal, and better than prison. Plus, the exile to Italy fit in nicely with Frank and Susan’s plans to run off together, but I didn’t think Anthony wanted to know all of that. In fact, he wanted the bullshit.

“And there was nothing you could do to hold on to Alhambra?”

“No.”

“Okay… hey, I heard that my father also owned your place. He bought that, too.”

“He bought Stanhope Hall from my father-in-law.” I was tempted to say, “I think he needed more room to bury bodies,” but I said, “He wanted to control the land development around his estate.” In fact, as I said, Susan had most probably talked her lover into that purchase. My father-in-law, William the Skinflint, wanted to dump this expensive white elephant, and for the right price he would have sold it to the devil. Actually, he did.

Susan had been upset at the thought of the family home passing into the hands of some stranger or a developer, and I believe she saw don Bellarosa as her white knight who could save the estate for her. I have no idea what the deal was between her and her lover, but I suspected that she at least had thoughts of living there with Frank. But then Frank sold out to the Feds and went into the Witness Protection Program, and Italy, I think, became Plan B.

I really should have insisted that I had to go, but Anthony seemed obsessed with the Federal government seizing a sizable fortune in property and cash from his father, going so far as to ask me, “Hey, do you think I have a shot at getting that back?”

“You have about as much chance of recovering assets seized under the RICO Act as I have of getting the Man of the Year Award from the Sons of Italy.”

He persisted. “How about those millions in bond money that you posted for my father? Right? He died before the trial, and he didn’t commit the murder. So why can’t you get that back?”

I saw where this was going, of course, and I definitely didn’t want to go there. I said, “As I understand it, those assets, including Stanhope Hall, were returned to your father’s estate, then seized as part of his tax settlement with the IRS.”

“Yeah, but-”

“There are no buts, Anthony. I did what I could at the time. Your father was satisfied with my representation, and there are no do-overs.”

Bottom line, his obsession with the lost fortune was mostly smoke. What he was after was me, and thus his veiled criticism of how I handled this case a decade ago, and now he was going to give me the opportunity to get it right; to see that justice was done. Next stop after that was the slippery slope into his underworld. Thanks, but no thanks. Been there, Anthony. The pay is good, but the price is too high.

He said to me, “If you took this on, I’d give you two hundred up front, and a third of what you got back from the Feds.” He added, in case I didn’t get the math, “That could be three, four, maybe five million for you.”

He wasn’t actually as dim as I thought, and he also figured out that I probably needed the dough, which would make most men vulnerable to the temptations of the devil. I replied, “Actually, it’s about zero.”

“No, you at least get two hundred up front and it’s yours.”

“No, it’s yours.”

He seemed a little exasperated and tried a new approach. “Hey, Counselor, I think you owe me and my family something on this.”

“Anthony, I don’t owe you a thing.” In fact, Junior, your father owes me fifty large. I continued, “At the end, I wasn’t working for your father when he cut his own deal with the government. The only representation he had, as far as I know, was his personal attorney, Jack Weinstein” – who was actually a mob attorney – “so you should speak to him if you haven’t already.”

“Jack is retired.”

“So am I.”

As far as I was concerned, this meeting was over. We’d covered the walk down memory lane, and I’d squashed the clumsy recruiting pitch, so unless Junior wanted to hear that his father had actually been a government stool pigeon, or wanted to hear about my feelings on the subject of his father pulling some strings to get my tax returns examined, or seducing my wife, then there was little else to talk about – unless he wanted to talk about the night his father was murdered. On that subject, I reminded him, “Don’t forget what we discussed regarding my ex-wife.”

He nodded, then asked me, “I mean, do you give a shit?”

“My children do.”

He nodded again, and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Good.” I was about to reannounce my early departure, but then he said, “I never understood how she got off on that.”

“She had good lawyers.”

“Yeah? I guess that wasn’t you.”

“Anthony, go fuck yourself.”

Like his father, who rarely, if ever, heard a personal insult, he didn’t know how to react to that. He seemed to be wavering between explosive rage or sloughing it off as a joke. He picked the latter, and forced a laugh, saying, “You got to learn to curse in Italian. You say, vaffanculo. That means, like, Go fuck your ass. In English, we say, Go fuck yourself. Same thing.”

“Interesting. Well-”

“But, I mean, do you think it’s fair that she walked on a premeditated murder? She got a different kind of justice because of who she is. Right? I mean, what is this? Open season on Italians?”

“This subject is closed. Or take it up with the Justice Department.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And don’t even think about what you’re thinking about.”

He stared at me, but said nothing.

I started to slide out of the booth, but the waitress appeared with two covered serving dishes, and the sweet but obviously inexperienced young lady asked us, “You want to share?”

Anthony, whose mood had darkened somewhat, reminded her, “We got the same fucking thing.” He looked at me and asked, “You believe this moron?” He turned to her and inquired, “You jerking us around? We look stupid to you?”

The waitress seemed not to understand and asked, “You no like soup?”

Anthony snapped at her, “Get the soup out of here and bring a couple of beers. Chop, chop.”

She took the soup and left.

Frank Bellarosa had hid his thugishness well, though I’d seen it a few times, and heard about it from FBI agent Mancuso. His son, however, apparently hadn’t learned that a good sociopath understood how and when to be polite and charming. Anthony had been okay in the gatehouse – in fact, I’d thought he was a bit of a lightweight – but if you watch how powerful men treat the little people, you know how they will treat you when you don’t have anything they want.

Anthony said, “She forgot the fucking chopsticks. Didn’t you ask for chopsticks?” He raised his hand and was about to shout across the room, but I said, “Forget it.”

“No. I’ll get-”

“I said, forget it.” I leaned toward him, and he looked at me. I said to him, “When she returns, you will apologize to her for your bad behavior.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Anthony. And here’s another etiquette tip for you – if I want chopsticks, I’ll ask for them – not you. And if I want a beer, I’ll order the beer. Understand?”

He understood, but he wasn’t happy with the lesson. Interestingly, he said nothing.

I slid out of the booth.

He asked, “Where you going?”

“Home.”

He got up, followed me, and said, “Hey, Counselor, don’t run off. We’re not done yet.”

I turned toward him, and we were almost face-to-face. I said to him, “We have nothing more to talk about on any subject.”

“You know that’s not true. We both got some things to work out.”

“Maybe. But not together, Anthony.”

We were attracting a little attention, so he said, “I’ll walk you out.”

“No. You’ll go back to your seat, apologize to the waitress, then do whatever the hell you want with the rest of your life.”

A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he said, “Yeah, I see the balls, but I don’t see the brains, Counselor.”

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Anthony’s goon had stood and moved a few feet toward us. The restaurant was very quiet now, and I said to Frank Bellarosa’s son, “You have your father’s eyes, but not much else.”

I turned and walked toward the door, not knowing what to expect.

I went out into the cool night air. Tony was on a smoke break, leaning against the Cadillac SUV, and called out to me, “Hey, you done already?”

I ignored him, got into my car, and started the engine. I saw the goon coming out of the restaurant, and as I backed out of the parking space, I saw him speaking to Tony, and both men looked at me as I drove, without haste, into the street.

I didn’t need to provoke a confrontation, but he was starting to annoy me, and I thought he was being a little condescending. Well, maybe I was reading him wrong. Or maybe I was seeing Frank across the table, and maybe I had a flashback or a mental image of Frank Bellarosa having sex with Susan – that damned dream – or Frank scamming me into working for him, or Frank screwing up my life with a smile on his face.

In any case, whatever it was that set me off, it felt good, and it had the added result of getting Junior out of my life.

I glanced in my rearview mirror, but didn’t see the Cadillac SUV. I left Glen Cove and headed back toward Lattingtown along a dark country road.

Also, I’d put Anthony on notice again about staying away from Susan. Of course, if I was working for him, then Susan had nothing to worry about, assuming she was worried, which I was sure she was not. Worrying used to be my job, and apparently still is.

The other thing for me to keep in mind was that Anthony, who hadn’t inherited his father’s wealth, had most probably inherited his father’s enemies; those within his immediate circle of friends and family, such as Uncle Sal, and those outside his family, such as some of the goombahs I’d met at a gathering at the Plaza Hotel one night, and finally, those, such as Alphonse Ferragamo, whose job it was to put young Anthony in prison for a long time. Therefore, Anthony’s tenure as don might be short, and being around him might be dangerous.

And somehow, Anthony thought I might be able to help him with these problems, as I’d helped his father. Was I supposed to be flattered?

History can definitely repeat itself if everyone concentrates very hard on making the same stupid mistakes.

And yet, something draws us back to the familiar, because even if the familiar is not so good, it is familiar.

Within fifteen minutes, I was on Grace Lane – Anthony Bellarosa’s gift to his neighbors – and my headlights illuminated the shiny new blacktop stretching out before me. A verse from Matthew popped into my head: Wide is the gate, and broad is the road, that leadeth to destruction.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The following day, Thursday, brought thunderstorms, which were good background for sorting and burning files, and by late afternoon I’d made a large dent in this task, which was onerous and, now and then, sad.

At 6:00 P.M., I rewarded myself with a bottle of Banfi Brunello di Montalcino and Panini Bolognese (baloney sandwich), then sat in George’s armchair and read the New York Times. John Gotti, the former head of the Gambino crime family, was near death in the hospital of the Federal maximum security penitentiary in Springfield, Missouri, where he was serving a life sentence without parole.

I wondered how, or if, this would affect Mr. Anthony Bellarosa, then I wondered why I was even wondering about that.

And yet, aside from Anthony’s professional gain or loss after Mr. Gotti’s death, I couldn’t help but think about why young men still got into that business, knowing that the careers of nearly all their extended famiglia ended in early death or imprisonment. Well, maybe that was better than a retirement community in Florida. In any case, it wasn’t my problem.

I did think, briefly, about Anthony’s offer of two hundred thousand for doing a little legal work, and I thought, too, about my cut if I could recover some of the Bellarosa assets seized by the Feds. As Anthony said, the two hundred large was in my pocket, but as I knew, that was the shiny lure to attract me – the fish – to the potential millions – the bait – which actually hid a sharp hook.

There was nothing illegal or even unethical about this; fish and lawyers need to eat. The problem was the sharp hook. One needed to be careful.

In fact, one needed to stop thinking about this.

Friday was also rainy, and by noon I’d nearly finished getting my paperwork organized and boxed, ready to be shipped someplace after Ethel was boxed and shipped. My next task was to gather and pack my personal effects – old Army uniforms, sailing trophies, books, desk items, and so forth. How did I ever live for ten years without this stuff?

Anyway, I’d found some documents and papers pertaining or belonging to Susan, as well as some photographs of her family, and since I didn’t want to be reminded of the Stanhopes – especially William, Charlotte, and their useless son, Peter – I put these photos in a large envelope with Susan’s papers; delivery method to be determined.

The weather cleared in the afternoon, and I took the opportunity to go for a run up to the Long Island Sound. There was a large gaff-rigged sloop out on the water, and I stood on a rock on Fox Point and watched it glide east, its white sails full and its bow cutting effortlessly through the whitecaps.

I could see the skipper at the helm, and though I couldn’t see his face clearly at this distance, I knew he was smiling.

I doubted I’d ever go back to sea, though the sea did beckon now and then, as it does to every sailor. But as every sailor knows who has ever loved the sea, its embrace is too often deadly.

At about 4:00 P.M., back in the gatehouse, I happened to notice a gray Mercedes coming through the gates, driven by a man who looked like he could fit the description of someone named Amir Nasim.

Living in London had brought me into close proximity to men and women who practiced the Islamic faith, including a few co-workers, and I assumed that Mr. Nasim, an Iranian, was a Muslim, and thus his Sabbath would begin at sundown with the call to prayer.

Mr. Nasim, and probably his whole household, would get themselves to a mosque, or they’d simply roll out the prayer rugs in the former chapel of Stanhope Hall, take off their shoes, face Mecca – which from this part of the world was east toward the Hamptons – and pray.

I didn’t want to intrude on this religious devotion, but I did need to speak to Mr. Nasim before too long, so I might as well do it now. Figuring I had a few hours before the prayer rugs were unrolled, I changed into tan slacks, blue blazer, golf shirt, and penny loafers, with clean socks, just in case he rolled out another rug and asked me to stay.

I’d found a box of my engraved calling cards that said, simply, John Whitman Sutter, Stanhope Hall, and I slipped a few of these in my pocket.

Susan had given me these useless and anachronistic cards, and I probably hadn’t used six of them in the dozen years I owned them, the last one being sent – to amuse myself – to don Frank Bellarosa, via his building contractor, with instructions that Mr. Bellarosa should call Mr. Sutter regarding Mrs. Sutter’s horse stable project, which our new neighbor had offered to help us with. Insisted, actually.

Normally, I’d walk the half mile up the main drive to Stanhope Hall, but I didn’t want to pass Susan’s guest cottage – our former marital residence – on foot. So I took the Ford Taurus and headed toward the mansion.

I passed the turnoff to her cottage, which I could see a few hundred feet to my left, and which I noticed had lights on in the front room, which used to be my den. Susan’s SUV was in the forecourt.

Some distance from the guest cottage I saw Susan’s stable – a handsome brick structure that once sat closer to the main house, but which Susan had moved, brick by brick, from her father’s property to her property in anticipation of Stanhope Hall being sold. This was a formidable and expensive project, but as I said, and as good luck would have it, Mr. Bellarosa was happy and eager to have his contractor, Dominic, do the job immediately, and for peanuts. I refused; Susan accepted. The lesson here is that if something looks too good to be true, it is. But I already knew that. What I didn’t know was that Frank Bellarosa had been as interested in Susan as he was in me.

Anyway, up ahead, I saw Stanhope Hall, set on a rise amidst terraced gardens.

To envision this place, think of the White House in Washington, or any neo-classical palace you’ve ever seen, then imagine a world with no income tax (and thus no tax lawyers like myself) and think of cheap immigrant labor, sixty-hour workweeks with no benefits, and the riches of a new continent pouring into the pockets of a few hundred men in New York. This Gilded Age was followed by the Roaring Twenties, when things got even better, and the mansions continued to grow bigger and more numerous, like golden mushrooms sprouting along Fifth Avenue, and in Bar Harbor, Newport, the Hamptons, and here on the Gold Coast. And then came Black Tuesday, and it all crashed in a single day. Shit happens.

I should mention that the back sixty acres of the Stanhope estate, where Susan had done most of her horseback riding, had been subdivided like Alhambra, as part of the Federal land grab, to build about a dozen horrible phony Beaux-Arts mini-mansions on the required five-acre lots. Thankfully, a stockade fence and a ditch had been constructed to separate these monstrosities from the front acreage, and a new access road led out to another main road so that no one on this end of the former estate had to see or hear the residents of this nouveau riche ghetto. Well, that may have sounded a bit snobby, and in any case it’s not my problem.

Still remaining on the original Stanhope acreage was a classical, rotunda-shaped, X-rated love temple, which housed a nude statue of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, and a nude statue of Priapus, the Roman god of boners. Susan and I had played out a few classical themes in this temple, and on one occasion, I recalled, she was a virgin who’d come to the temple to ask Venus for a suitable husband, and I was a centurion with erectile dysfunction who’d come to pray to Priapus for a woody. As with all of our fantasies, this one had a happy ending. The real marriage, unfortunately, did not.

As I approached the mansion, I wondered what Amir Nasim thought of his pagan temple, and wondered if he’d draped the statues, or had them removed or destroyed. Talk about a clash of cultures.

I parked the Taurus under the huge, columned portico of Stanhope Hall, and there I sat, thinking that in the nearly vanished world of established custom and protocol – now called the pecking order – John Whitman Sutter would not be going from the gatehouse to the mansion to call on Amir Nasim. And maybe that’s why I’d put this off.

I sat in the car, thinking I should leave. But I took some comfort in the fact that my visit was unannounced, and thus I was asserting my status and privilege, or what was left of it.

On the subject of maintaining one’s dignity while asking a favor of the recently arrived barbarians now living in the villa, I recalled Susan’s favorite line from St. Jerome: The Roman world is falling, yet we hold our heads erect…

I got out of the car, climbed the granite steps between the classical columns, and rang the bell.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A young woman – possibly Iranian – in a black dress opened the door, and I announced myself by stating, “Mr. John Sutter to see Mr. Amir Nasim.”

At this point, the house servant would usually inquire, “Is he expecting you, sir?”

And I would reply, “No, but if it’s not inconvenient, I would like to see him on a personal matter.” Then I’d hand her my calling card, she’d show me into the foyer, disappear, and within a few minutes she’d return with the verdict.

In this case, however, the young woman seemed to have limited English as well as limited training, and she replied, “You wait,” and closed the door on me. So I rang again, she opened the door, and I handed her my card, saying sharply, “Give this to him. Understand?”

She closed the door again, and I stood there. That was my third encounter with an English-challenged person in as many days, and I was becoming annoyed. In fact, I could almost understand Anthony losing his cool with the young Chinese waitress, and his rap on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. I mean, the Goths, Huns, and Vandals probably learned Latin as they overran the Empire. Veni, vidi, vici. It’s not that difficult.

I waited about five minutes, the door opened again, and a tall, thin gentleman with dark features and a gray suit, holding my card in his hand, said, “Ah, Mr. Sutter. How nice of you to visit.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he asked me to come in.

He said to me, “I was just about to have tea. Will you join me?”

I didn’t want tea, but I needed some of his time, so I guess it was teatime. I replied, “Thank you, I will.”

“Excellent.”

I followed him into the huge granite lower vestibule, which was designed as a sort of transit area for arriving guests. Here the house servants would take the guests’ hats, coats, walking sticks, or whatever, and the guests would be led up one of the great sweeping staircases that rose into the upper foyer. This was a bit more formal than the way we greet houseguests today, such as, “Hey, John, how the hell are you? Throw your coat anywhere. Ready for a beer?”

In any case, Mr. Nasim led me up the right-hand staircase, which was still lit by the original painted cast-iron statues of blackamoors in turbans holding electric torches. I wondered if Mr. Nasim was offended by the statues, which obviously represented his co-religionists as dark-skinned people in a servile capacity.

Thanks to Anthony, the fall of the Roman Empire was still on my mind, and I recalled something I’d read at St. Paul’s – where Roman history was big – about Attila the Hun, who, upon capturing the Roman city of Mediolanum, entered the royal palace and spotted a large fresco depicting an enthroned Roman emperor with defeated Sycthians prostrate at his feet. Unfortunately, Attila mistook the groveling Scythians as Huns, and he was so teed off that he made the Roman governor crawl to him on his hands and knees.

I guess I was concerned about a similar cultural misunderstanding here regarding the blackamoors, and I thought I should say something like, “The Stanhopes were insensitive racists and religious bigots, and these statues always offended me.”

Well, maybe that was a silly thought, and quite frankly, I didn’t give a damn what Amir Nasim thought; he’d had ample time to get rid of the statues if he’d wanted to.

Anyway, we chatted about the weather until we reached the top of the stairs and passed into the upper foyer, where in days gone by the master and his wife would greet their now coatless, hatless, and probably winded guests.

From the upper foyer, I followed Mr. Nasim to the right, down a long, wide gallery, which I knew led to the library.

Mr. Nasim inquired, “How long has it been since you have been here?”

Obviously, he knew something of my personal history. I replied, “Ten years.”

“Ah, yes, it is nine years since I purchased this home.”

I recalled that the government, which had seized the property from Frank Bellarosa, had sold Stanhope Hall and most of the acreage to a Japanese corporation, for use as a retreat for strung-out Nipponese executives, but the deal had fallen through, and I’d heard from Edward that an Iranian had purchased the property a year after I’d left. I should tell Mr. Nasim that Anthony Bellarosa wanted his father’s property back.

He asked me, “You have good memories here?”

Not really. But I replied, “Yes.” In fact, Susan and I had been married in Stanhope Hall, while William and Charlotte were still living here, and Cheap Willie had given us – or his daughter – an outdoor reception, to which he’d invited about three hundred of his closest and dearest friends, family, and business associates, as well as a few people I knew. Of course, with William footing the bill, the food and booze ran out early, and the orchestra packed it in at 10:00 P.M. sharp, and by 10:30 the remaining guests were scavenging for wine dregs and cheese rinds.

That was not my first clue that my new father-in-law was a master of the bargain-basement grand gesture, nor was it the last. In the end, he’d gotten back the only thing he ever gave me: his daughter.

Mr. Nasim informed me, “We are still in the process of decorating.”

“It takes a while.”

“Yes.” He added, “My wife… the women take their time with decisions.”

“Really?” I mean, nine years isn’t that long, Amir. You’re married. Learn to be patient.

In fact, the wide gallery and the adjoining rooms were almost devoid of furniture and totally devoid of paintings or decorations. There were, however, a scattering of carpets on the floor – undoubtedly Persian – and ironically, this is what covered most of the floors of Stanhope Hall when William and Charlotte lived here.

The last time I’d seen this place, it was unfurnished, except for a few odds and ends here and there, plus there were a few rooms that Susan and I used to store sporting equipment, awful gifts, and Susan’s childhood furniture. Also, I recalled there had been steamer trunks filled with clothing belonging to long-dead Stanhopes of both sexes. These outfits spanned the decades of the twentieth century, and Susan and I would sometimes dress in period costume – we both preferred the Roaring Twenties – and act silly.

Mr. Nasim said to me, “I suppose you know the history of this house.”

His English was good, learned from someone who spoke with a British accent. I replied, “I do.”

“Good. You must tell me the history.”

“If you wish.”

We reached the library, and Mr. Nasim stood aside and ushered me through the double doors.

The paneling and bookshelves were as I remembered, a rich pecan wood, but the new furniture was, unfortunately, a really bad French style, white and gold, the sort of thing you’d see in the Sunday magazine ads for a hundred dollars down and low monthly payments.

Mr. Nasim indicated two chairs covered in baby blue satin near the fireplace, between which was a white coffee table with bowed legs. I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, and Mr. Nasim sat facing me. I noticed that the bookshelves were nearly empty, and what was there were mostly oversized art books of the type that decorators sold by the foot.

I noticed, too, that Mr. Nasim hadn’t invested in air-conditioning, and a floor fan moved the warm, humid air around the big library.

On the table was a silver tray piled high with sticky-looking pastry. My host said to me, “I enjoy the English tea, but I prefer Persian sweets to cucumber sandwiches.”

I noted his use of the word “Persian” as opposed to “Iranian,” which had some negative connotations since the Islamic Revolution, the ’79 hostage crisis, and subsequent misunderstandings between our countries.

Mr. Nasim whipped out his cell phone, speed-dialed, said a few words in Farsi, then hung up and said to me with a smile, “The high-tech version of the servant call button.” He informed me, “Tea will arrive shortly,” just in case I thought he’d called the Revolutionary Guards to take me hostage.

He sat back in his satin chair and asked me, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Sutter?”

I replied, without apologizing for my unannounced house call, “First, I wanted to let you know – personally and officially – that I’m staying in the gatehouse.”

“Thank you.” He added politely, “Perhaps I should have called on you.”

My limited experience with Arabs, Pakistanis, and Iranians in London was that they fell into two categories: those who tried to emulate the British, and those who went out of their way not to. Mr. Nasim, so far, seemed to fall into the former category of, “See how Western I am? Am I getting it right?”

I informed him, “It is I who am living on your property, so I should call on you. Which brings me to the other point of my visit. I saw Mrs. Allard a few days ago in the hospice house, and I believe she doesn’t have much time left.”

He seemed genuinely surprised and replied, “Yes? I didn’t know that. I thought… well, I am sorry to hear that news.”

“When she dies, as you know, her life tenancy expires with her.”

“Yes, I know that.”

He didn’t seem outwardly thrilled to learn that he was about to get his property back, but he knew, of course, this day would come, and he’d already made plans for it, and I’m sure those plans didn’t include me. Nevertheless, I said, “Therefore, I’d like to ask you if I could rent – or buy – the gatehouse.”

“Yes? You want to live there?”

“It’s an option.”

He nodded, thought a moment, then said, “I see…”

“If I rented, it would be only for a month or two.”

“I see. So you need a place to stay while you are not in London.”

“How did you know I lived in London?”

“I was told by Mrs. Sutter.”

“I assume you mean my ex-wife.”

“That is correct.”

“And what else did she tell you? So I don’t take your time by repeating what you already know.”

He shrugged and replied, “When she purchased the house – the former guest cottage – she paid a courtesy call. It was a Sunday, and I was here with my wife, and we had tea and she spoke generally of her situation.”

“I see. And since then, she’s informed you that her ex-husband has returned from London.”

“Correct.” He added, “Not me, actually. Soheila. My wife. They speak.”

I wanted to warn him that Mrs. Sutter was an adulteress and not good company for Soheila. But why cause trouble? I returned to my subject and said, “So, if you have no objection, I’d like to rent the gatehouse for a month or two – with an option to buy.”

“It is not for sale, but-”

Before he could continue, the woman who’d answered the door appeared carrying a tea tray, which she set down on the table with a bow of her head.

Mr. Nasim dismissed her, and she literally backed out of the room and pulled the doors closed. Well, maybe her training wasn’t all that bad; she just needed a lesson in front door etiquette. Or, more likely, Amir Nasim scared the hell out of her. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers from him on gender relations.

Anyway, Mr. Nasim did the honors and opened a wooden box that contained tins of teas and said to me, “Do you have a preference?”

I did, and it was called Scotch whisky, but I said, “Earl Grey would be fine.”

“Excellent.” He spooned the loose tea into two china pots and poured in hot water from a thermal carafe, all the while making tea talk, such as, “I generally let it steep for four minutes…” He covered both pots, then flipped over a sand timer and said, “…but you can time yours as you wish.”

I glanced at my watch, which he could interpret as me timing my tea or me getting a little impatient. In any case, I guess tea is what people of Mr. Nasim’s religion did in lieu of six o’clock cocktails.

As we waited for the sands of time to run out, he made conversation and said, “I lived in London for ten years. Wonderful city.”

“It is.”

“You have lived there, I believe, seven years.”

“That’s right.”

“And before that, you sailed around the world.”

“Correct.”

“So, you are an adventurous man. A man who likes danger, perhaps.”

“I went sailing. I didn’t attack any warships.”

He smiled, then said, “But it is dangerous out there, Mr. Sutter. Aside from the weather, there are pirates and explosive mines. Did you sail into the Persian Gulf?”

“I did.”

“That is very dangerous. Did you visit Iran?”

“I did. Bushehr.”

“And how were you received there?”

“Quite well.”

“Good. I have this theory that people who live in seaports are happier and kinder to strangers than those who live inland. What do you think?”

“I think that’s true until you get to New York.”

He smiled again, then changed the subject and said, “So, you will return to London in a month or two.”

“Perhaps.”

“And where do you live there?”

I told him my street in Knightsbridge, without giving him my house number, flat number, or telephone number.

He nodded and said, “A very nice neighborhood.” He informed me, “I lived in Mayfair.”

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Too many Arabs.”

I let that alone and watched the sand run. I’m aware that other cultures make lots of small talk before they get down to business, and I know this is not simply politeness; the other guy is trying to get a measure of you that he will use later. In this case, however, the business was fairly simple and should have taken less time than a three-minute egg. Well, maybe Amir Nasim was simply being polite to a now landless former aristocrat.

He said to me, “So, you are an attorney.”

“That’s right.”

“And this is what you did in London.”

“American tax law for British and foreign clients.”

“Ah. Interesting. Yes, there is a need for that. In fact, I have a company in London, so perhaps we can meet there one day and-” Time was up, and he took hold of his teapot and poured through a strainer into a dainty cup, saying to me, “Please go ahead, unless you like it stronger.”

I poured my tea as Mr. Nasim heaped several spoons of sugar into his cup. He asked me, “Sugar? Cream? Lemon?”

“I drink it straight.”

“Good. That is the correct way. But I like my sugar.” He sipped and said, “Very good. I use filtered water.”

“Me, too.” I said to him, “About the gatehouse-”

“Try a sweet. May I recommend that one?” He pointed to a gooey heap of something and said, “That is called Rangeenak.” He then named the other five desserts for me.

My Farsi, never good to begin with, was a bit rusty, so I said, “I’ll try number one.”

“Yes. Excellent.” He plucked up a wad of what looked liked dates with a silver tong and put them on my plate. “If you find it too sweet, I would recommend this one, which is made of sesame paste.”

“Okay. So, as to the purpose of my visit, it would be convenient for me, and I hope not an inconvenience for you, if I stayed for a month or two in the gatehouse.”

He put one of each pastry on his plate and replied offhandedly, “Yes, of course.”

This took me by surprise, and I said, “Well… that’s very good of you.” I added, “I can draw up a short-term lease for one month, beginning on Mrs. Allard’s death, with another month’s option. So, assuming we can agree on a rent-”

“There is no charge, Mr. Sutter.”

This, too, took me by surprise, and I said, “I insist-”

“No charge.” He joked, “Do you want to complicate my American taxes?”

Actually, that’s how I made my living, but I said, “Well… that’s very kind of you, but-”

“Not at all. I ask only that you be out by September the first.” He added, “Of course, if Mrs. Allard is still living at that time, then you are still her guest. But otherwise, September the first.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.”

“But why don’t I draw up an agreement to that effect?” I explained, “Legally, it would be good for both of us to have this in writing.”

“We have a gentleman’s agreement, Mr. Sutter.”

“As you wish.” Now, of course, I was supposed to offer my hand – or did we cut open our veins, exchange blood, then dance around the table? After a few awkward seconds, I extended my hand and we shook.

Mr. Nasim poured more tea for himself, and I took a sip of mine.

He said to me, “I just had a thought.”

My antennae went up.

He continued, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

I suddenly had this flashback to the evening when Frank Bellarosa invited Susan and me to Alhambra for coffee and Italian pastry, and afterwards don Bellarosa and I retired to his library for grappa and cigars, at which time he asked me for a favor that wound up ruining my life. Mr. Nasim did not indulge in alcohol or tobacco, but otherwise I was certain he and the dead don had a lot in common.

Mr. Nasim inquired, “May I ask a favor?”

“You may ask.”

“Good.” He popped a rather large pastry in his mouth, then plunged his fingers in his finger bowl and wiped them on a linen napkin. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then said, “With Mrs. Allard in the gatehouse and Mrs. Sutter in the guest cottage, I have felt a lack of privacy. You understand?”

I reminded him, “You have nearly two hundred walled acres of land here, Mr. Nasim. How much privacy do you need?”

“I enjoy my privacy.” He further informed me, “Also, I could make use of the gatehouse for my own staff, and I would like to have the guest cottage for my own use as well.”

I didn’t respond.

He continued, “I was about to make an offer to the owners of the guest cottage for their house and the ten acres when, suddenly, I discovered that Mrs. Sutter had purchased the property. And so I made her a very substantial offer for the property, but she refused. Very nicely, I should say, but refused nonetheless.”

“Make her a better offer.”

“I would, but I take her at her word that the property is not for sale at any price.” He added, “Of course, there is a price, but…” He looked at me and said, “She told me that this is her home, with many memories, a place where your children grew up, and where they can visit, and… well, a place that she associates with a good time in her life…” He continued, “And, of course, it is a part of this estate – Stanhope Hall, where she grew up. And so she intends to stay here, she said, until she dies.”

I didn’t respond, but I thought that made at least two people in the neighborhood who wouldn’t mind if Susan were dead. Finally, I said, “That sounds like a pretty definite no.”

Mr. Nasim sort of shrugged and said, “People, as they get older – Not that Mrs. Sutter is old. She seems quite young. But people become more nostalgic as the years pass, and thus they have an urge to revisit the places of their youth, or they become attached to an object or a place. You understand. And this can lead to a degree of stubbornness and perhaps the irrational making of decisions.”

“What is your point, Mr. Nasim?”

“Well, I was wondering if you could reason with her.”

I informed him, “I couldn’t reason with her when we were married.”

He smiled politely.

I continued, “We don’t speak. And I have no intention of speaking to her on this subject.”

He seemed disappointed, but said, “Well, I thought this was a good idea of mine, but I see that it was not such a good idea.”

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

“No.” He switched to a more important subject and said, “You haven’t eaten your Rangeenak.”

To be polite, I popped one of the date-things in my mouth, then rinsed my fingers in the rose petal water, dried them and said, “Well, I won’t hold you to the free rent, but I do need the place for that time.”

He waved his hand and said, “I am good to my word. No strings attached.”

That’s what Frank used to say.

My business was finished, and I didn’t want to be asked to take off my shoes to stay and pray, so I was about to take my leave, but he said, “My offer to Mrs. Sutter was four million dollars. Far more than the property is worth, and more than double what she paid for it only a few months ago. I would be willing to pay someone a ten percent commission if that person could facilitate the purchase.”

I stood and said, “I am not that person. Thank you-”

He stood, too, and replied, “Well, but you don’t know that. If you do speak to her, keep this conversation in mind.”

I was getting a little annoyed and said brusquely, “Mr. Nasim, what in the world makes you think I have any influence over my ex-wife?”

He hesitated, then replied, “She spoke well of you, and so I assumed…” He changed the subject and said, “I will walk you to the door.”

“I can let myself out. I know the place well.”

“Yes. And you were going to tell me the history of the house.”

“Perhaps another time. Or,” I suggested, “Mrs. Sutter can give you a more detailed history.” I extended my hand and said, “Thank you for tea, and for the use of the gatehouse.” I added, “If you change your mind, I understand.”

He took my hand, then put his other hand on my shoulder and turned me toward the doors, saying, “I insist on walking you out.”

Maybe he thought I was going to roll up a Persian carpet and take it with me, so I said, “As you wish.”

As we walked down the gallery, he handed me his card. “This is my personal card with my private number. Call me if I can be of any assistance.”

I thought about asking him to help me load up Elizabeth’s SUV tomorrow, but I didn’t think that was what he meant.

He pulled my calling card from his pocket, looked at it, and read, “Stanhope Hall. I assume this is an old card.” He made a joke and continued, “Or did you just have these printed in expectation of my agreeing to your request?”

I replied, “These are old cards. But rather than throw them out, I’ll make you an offer for the whole estate.”

He laughed. “Make your best offer. Everything has a price.”

Indeed, it does.

He asked me, “Do you have a cell phone?”

“Not yet.” I got nosy and asked him, “What sort of business are you in, Mr. Nasim?”

“Import and export.”

“Right.”

He said, “Please feel free to make use of the grounds.” He added, “Mrs. Sutter runs or takes long walks on the property.”

Good reason not to make use of the grounds.

He added, “I have maintained the English hedge maze.” He smiled and said, “One can become lost in there.”

“That’s the purpose.”

“Yes.” He asked, “Did your children play there?”

“They did.” He’d opened the subject of the estate grounds, so I asked him, bluntly, “Did you remove the statues from the love temple?”

“I’m afraid I did, Mr. Sutter.”

He didn’t offer any further information, and I didn’t want to be too provocative by asking what became of the statues.

He did say, however, “I, myself, didn’t find them offensive – they are simply examples of Western classical art of that pagan time. But I have guests here of my faith, and those statues might be offensive to them.”

I could have suggested bathrobes for the statues, or locking the temple door, but I let it drop.

He, however, did not let it drop, and informed me, “Mrs. Sutter understood.”

Apparently she’d become more sensitive to other cultures in the last decade. I said to him, “It’s your property.”

“Yes. In any case, as I said, feel free to use the grounds, including the tennis courts. I ask only that you dress somewhat modestly on my property. You can dress as you wish on your own property, of course.”

“Thank you.”

This subject brought back a memory of Mr. Frank Bellarosa and Mrs. Sutter, when Bellarosa made his first, unannounced visit to Stanhope Hall, while Susan and I were playing a game of mixed doubles on the estate’s tennis court with Jim and Sally Roosevelt. Our new neighbor brought us a gift of vegetable seedlings, and aside from interrupting our match, which was annoying enough, Bellarosa kept glancing at Susan’s bare legs.

Well, if only Mr. Nasim had owned the estate then, Susan would have been playing tennis in a full-length chador and veil, and Frank Bellarosa would have just dropped off the seedlings and left without a thought about screwing Susan. So maybe Amir Nasim had a point there about modest dress.

Anyway, I certainly didn’t want to run into Susan on the Stanhope acreage – though she and Mr. Nasim may have wanted that – but to be polite I said, “Thank you for your offer.” We reached the stairs, and I said, “I can find my way from here.”

“I need the exercise.”

We descended the wide, curving staircase together, and he said, apropos of the stair lighting, “I’ve seen these blackamoors in paintings, and as statues in museums and palaces all over Europe. But I’m not certain of their significance.”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose there was a time in Europe when these people were slaves or servants.”

“Well, they don’t look like they own the place.”

“No, they do not.” He stopped abruptly about midway down the staircase, so I, too, stopped. He said to me, “Mr. Sutter, I quite understand.”

“Understand what, Mr. Nasim?”

“Your feelings, sir.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “Your feelings about me, about me being in this house, and about my culture, my money, my religion, and my country. And about your position in relation to all of that.”

I ran through several replies in my mind, then picked the best one and said, “Then we completely understand one another.”

“And I must say I don’t really blame you for how you feel.”

“I don’t care if you do or you don’t.”

“Of course. I understand that as well. But I want to tell you that the reason I’m here, and the reason I was in England, is that I am an exile, Mr. Sutter. Not a voluntary exile, as you were. But a political exile who would be arrested and executed if I returned to my country, which is now in the hands of the mullahs and the radicals. I was a very ardent and public supporter of the late Shah, and so I am a marked man. I have no country, Mr. Sutter, so unlike you, who can come home, I cannot go home. Unlike your wife, who has come home, I cannot simply fly to Iran and buy back my old house. In fact, I will probably never see my country again. So, Mr. Sutter, you and I have something in common – we both want me back where I came from, but that will not happen in my lifetime, nor yours.”

I had the feeling that this speech was rehearsed and given on the appropriate occasions, but I also thought it was probably true. Or partly true. I suppose I was now feeling a little less unkind toward Mr. Amir Nasim, but that didn’t change my situation or his.

I said to him, “Thank you for your time.”

I continued alone down the stairs, but I sensed he was still there.

I walked across the stone floor, and my footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer. The front door was bolted, so I unbolted it.

He called out to me, “Mr. Sutter.”

I turned and looked at him on the staircase.

He said to me, “I should tell you that there are some security issues here which have recently arisen and of which you should be aware.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “This is why I need the gatehouse and the guest cottage – to put my people in them. You understand?”

I understood that this was quite possibly a convenient lie – a ruse to make me tell Susan that Stanhope Hall was under imminent threat of attack by an Islamic hit squad. Actually, I didn’t think Susan would care as long as the assassins didn’t trample the flowerbeds.

Mr. Nasim, not getting any reaction from me, continued, “If you see anything suspicious or odd, please call me.”

“I certainly will. And you do the same. Good day.”

I left and closed the door behind me.

I descended the steps under the portico, got into my car, and drove off.

As I moved slowly down the tree-covered lane toward the gatehouse, I processed what Amir Nasim said about his security issues. I mean, really, how many political exiles get whacked around here? None, the last time I counted. Surely there were local ordinances prohibiting political assassination.

On the other hand, the world had changed since September 11 of last year. For one thing, there had been dozens of local residents killed in the Twin Towers, and there were people like Mr. Amir Nasim who were feeling some heat from their countries of origin, or from an irate and increasingly xenophobic population – or from the authorities. Or they were just feeling paranoid, which might be the case with Amir Nasim.

And then there was Mr. Anthony Bellarosa down the road. How odd, I thought, that Messrs. Bellarosa and Nasim, from opposite ends of the universe, had a similar problem, to wit: Old enemies were out to kill them. But maybe that was not coincidence; it was an occupational hazard when your occupation is living dangerously and pissing off the wrong people.

Enter John Sutter, who just dropped into town to take care of some business, and gets two offers for some fast money. I mean, this was really my lucky week – unless I got caught in the crossfire.

I approached the guest cottage, and I thought about stopping and ringing her bell. “Hello, Susan, I just stopped by to tell you that if you see a group of armed men in black ski masks running across your lawn, don’t be alarmed. They’re just here to kill Mr. Nasim.” And I should add, “If a Mr. Anthony Bellarosa comes by, don’t forget that you killed his father. And, oh, by the way, I have some nude photos of you, and photos of your dysfunctional family.”

I slowed down as I came abreast of her house, and I could actually see her through the front window of what was once my den. She was sitting where my desk used to be, and it looked as though she was multitasking on the phone and the computer, and probably eating yogurt and doing her nails at the same time.

I considered seizing the moment and stopping. I did need to speak to her about what Nasim said, and about Anthony, and a few less urgent matters. But I could do that by phone… I continued on to the gatehouse.

It was a dreary day, weather-wise and otherwise, but I could see some breaks in the clouds, and tomorrow was supposed to be sunny. Plus, I’d gotten my housing situation straightened out – if I didn’t mind Islamic commandos scaling the walls – and I’d completed my desk work, made my peace with Ethel, made a sort of date with Elizabeth, and turned down an offer from Anthony Bellarosa, which is what I should have done with his father ten years ago.

All in all, things were on the right track, and quite possibly I had a wonderful, bright future ahead of me.

And yet I had this sense of foreboding, this feeling that there were forces at work that I comprehended on one level, but dismissed on another, like black storm clouds at sea that circled the horizon around my boat as I sat becalmed under a sunny patch of sky.

I went into the gatehouse, got myself a beer, then went out through the kitchen and sat on a bench in Ethel’s Victory Garden.

I thought about the changes she had seen in her long life – her spring, her summer, her autumn, and now her cold, dark winter.

I knew she had many regrets, including a lost love, and this made me think of Susan.

As my late father once said to me, “It’s too late to change the past, but never too late to change the future.”

What I didn’t want at the end of the day were any old regrets; what I really needed now were some new regrets.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saturday morning was sunny and cool. Good running weather.

I got into my sweats and began a jog along Grace Lane, heading south toward Bailey Arboretum, forty forested acres of a former estate, now a park, which I remembered was a good place to run.

I do some of my best thinking while running, and today’s first subject was my meeting with Elizabeth. I needed to tidy up the gatehouse, then drive into the village for some wine and whatever. Then I considered an agenda for my afternoon with her: legal matters first, followed by an inventory of everything in the house. After that, maybe a glass of wine. Maybe several glasses of wine. Maybe I should stop thinking about this.

I switched mental gears and gave some thought to my long-term plans. As I was going through an abundance of bad options, a black Cadillac Escalade passed me from behind. The vehicle slowed, made a tight U-turn, then headed toward me. As it got closer, I could see Tony behind the wheel.

I slowed my pace as the Cadillac drew abreast of me, then we both stopped, and the tinted rear window slid down. One of my bad options, Anthony Bellarosa, inquired, “Can I give you a lift?”

I walked across the road to the open window and saw that Anthony was alone in the back seat. He was dressed in black slacks and a tasteful tan sports jacket, and I didn’t see a violin case, so I concluded he was on some sort of legitimate errand. He asked again, “You want a lift?”

I replied, “No. I’m running.”

Tony was out of the car, and he reached past me and opened the door as Anthony slid over. Tony said, “Go ’head.”

I think I’ve seen this in the movies, and I always wondered why the idiot got into the car instead of making a scene, running and screaming for the police.

I glanced up and down Grace Lane, which was, as usual, nearly deserted.

Anthony patted the leather seat beside him and repeated his invitation. “Come on. I want to talk to you.”

I thought I’d made it clear that we had nothing to discuss, but I didn’t want him to think I was frightened, which I was not, or rude, which I do well with my peers, but not that well with the socially inept, like Anthony. And then there was the Susan problem, which I might be making too much of, but I wouldn’t want to make a mistake on that. So I slid into the back seat, and Tony shut the door, then got behind the wheel, did another U-turn, and off we drove.

Anthony said to me, “Hey, no hard feelings about the other night. Right?”

“What happened the other night?”

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from. Okay? But what happened in the past should stay in the past.”

“Since when?”

“I mean, it had nothing to do with me. So-”

“Your father screwing my wife has nothing to do with you. My wife murdering your father has something to do with you and her.”

“Maybe. But I’m talking about you and me.”

“There is no you and me.”

“There could be.”

“There can’t be.”

“Did you think about my offer?”

“What offer?”

“I’ll make it a hundred and fifty.”

“It was two.”

“See? You thought about it.”

“You got me,” I admitted. “And now you see I’m not that smart.”

“You’re plenty smart.”

“Make it a hundred, and we can talk.”

He laughed.

Were we having fun, or what?

Anthony nodded toward Tony, then said to me, “Let’s save this for later.” He asked me, “So, what do you think of my paving job?”

“I miss the potholes.”

“Yeah? I’ll rip it up.”

We left Grace Lane and were passing Bailey Arboretum, so I said, “You can let me off here.”

“I want to show you something first. In Oyster Bay. This might interest you. I was going to bring it up the other night, but you ran off.” He added, “I’ll drop you off here on the way back.”

End of discussion. I should have been royally pissed off about what amounted to a kidnapping, but it was a friendly kidnapping, and if I was honest with myself, I’d say I was an accomplice.

And on the subject of my prior voluntary involvement with the mob, Anthony was starting to remind me of his father. Frank never took no for an answer, especially when he thought he was doing you a great favor that you were too stupid to understand. Frank, of course, never failed to do himself a favor at the same time. Or, at the very least, he’d remind you of the favor he did for you and ask for a payback. I’ve been down this road, literally and figuratively, so Anthony was not tempting a virgin. In fact, the tricks and lessons I’d learned from the father were not doing the son any good.

We turned east toward Oyster Bay. Tony, being a good wheelman and bodyguard, was paying a lot of attention to his rearview mirror. I couldn’t help thinking about the tollbooth hit scene in The Godfather – which actually took place not too far from here – and I thought, It’s the car in front of you that you need to watch, stupid.

Anyway, Anthony, wanting to keep the conversation away from business and from me thinking I was being taken for a one-way ride, said, “Hey, I spoke to my mother this morning. She wants to see you.”

“Next time I’m in Brooklyn.”

“Better yet, she’s coming for Sunday dinner. You’re invited.”

“Thank you, but-”

“She comes early – like, after church. I send a car for her.”

“That’s nice.”

“Then she cooks all day. She brings her own food from Brooklyn, and she takes over the kitchen, and Megan is like, ‘Do I need this shit?’ Madonna. What’s with these women?”

“If you find out Sunday, let me know.”

“Yeah. Right. But if we have other company, then it’s usually okay. Hey, one time Megan wants to cook an Irish meal, and my mother comes in and says to me, ‘It smells like she’s boiling a goat in there.’” He laughed at the happy family memory, then continued, “And Megan drinks too much vino and hardly eats, and the kids aren’t used to real Italian food – they think canned spaghetti and pizza bagels are Italian food. But she cooks a hell of a meal. My mother. The smells remind me of Sundays when I was a kid in Brooklyn… it’s like I’m home again.”

I had no idea why he was telling me this, except, I suppose, to show me he was a regular guy, with regular problems, and that he had a mother.

Apropos of that, he asked me, “Did you ever eat at the house?”

I replied, “I did not.” But Susan did. I added, “Your mother always sent food over.”

Tony, eavesdropping, said, “Yeah. Me and Lenny or Vinnie was always taking food over to your place.”

I didn’t reply, but this would have been a good time to remind Tony that his departed boss could not have been screwing my wife without the knowledge, assistance, and cover stories of him and the aforementioned two goombahs. Well, I couldn’t blame them, and two of them were dead anyway. Three, if you count Frank. Four, if Susan got whacked, and five if I leaned forward and snapped Tony’s neck.

I looked out the side window. We were passing through a stretch of remaining estates, most of which were hidden behind old walls or thick trees, but now and then I could see a familiar mansion or a treed allée behind a set of wrought-iron gates.

The local gentry were tooling around in vintage sports cars, which they liked to do on weekends, and we also passed a group on horseback. If you squinted your eyes and excluded some modern realities, you could imagine yourself in the Gilded Age, or the Roaring Twenties, or even in the English countryside.

Anthony, a modern reality, intruded into my thoughts and inquired, “Hey, did you see that piece of ass on that horse?”

I assumed he wasn’t admiring the horse’s ass, but rather than ask for a grammatical clarification, I ignored him; kidnap victims are not required to make conversation.

I retreated into my ruminations and wondered if Susan had found what she was looking for when she returned here. Based on what Amir Nasim had told me, maybe she had. And I wondered what she thought about me returning. Quite possibly, she saw, or imagined, this circumstance as an opportunity to resume our lives together.

But it’s not easy to pick up where you left off, especially if a decade has passed. People change, new lovers have come and gone, or not gone, and each of the parties has processed the past in different ways.

Anthony asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“Your mother’s lasagna.”

He laughed. “Yeah? You got it.”

Dinner at the Bellarosas’ was not high on my social calendar, so I said, “I’m busy Sunday. But thank you.”

“Try to stop by. We eat at four.” He added instructions, saying, “I’ll give the guy at the guard booth your name and he’ll give you directions.”

I didn’t reply.

We drove along the shore, then entered the quaint village of Oyster Bay, and Tony headed into the center of town, which was crowded with Saturday people on various missions.

Saturdays, when I was younger and the kids were younger, were hectic. Carolyn and Edward always had sporting events, or golf and tennis lessons, or birthday parties, or whatever else Susan and the other mothers had cooked up for them, and they needed to be driven, usually with friends, on a tight schedule that rivaled the split-second timing of the Flying Wallendas.

This was all before cell phones, of course, and I recalled losing a few kids, missing a few pick-ups, and once dropping off Edward and his friends at the wrong soccer game.

“What’s so funny?”

I glanced at Anthony and replied, “This is exciting. I’ve never been kidnapped before.”

He chuckled and replied, “Hey, you’re not kidnapped. You’re doing me a favor. And you get a ride home.”

“Even if I don’t do you the favor?”

“Well, then we see.” He thought that was funny and so did Tony. I did not.

Tony found an illegal parking space near the center of the village, and he stayed with the car while Anthony and I got out.

Anthony walked along Main Street and I walked with him. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t want anyone I knew to see me walking with a Mafia don, but then I realized it didn’t matter. Better yet, it could be fun.

Anthony stopped near the corner where Main Street crossed another shopping street, and he pointed to a three-story brick building on the opposite corner and informed me, “That’s a historic building.”

“Really?” I knew the building, of course, since I’ve lived around here most of my life, but Anthony, like his father, couldn’t imagine that anyone knew anything until you heard it from him.

Anthony further informed me, “That was Teddy Roosevelt’s summer office.” He glanced at me to see if I fully appreciated his amazing knowledge. He pointed and said, “On the second floor.”

“No kidding?”

He asked me, “Can you believe that the President of the United States ran the country from that dump?”

“Hard to believe.” It wasn’t actually a dump; it was, in fact, a rather nice turn-of-the-century structure, with a mansard roof, housing a combination bookstore and café on the ground floor, and apartments on the upper floors, accessible through a door to the right of the bookstore.

Anthony continued, “You got to picture this – the President drives into town from his place on Sagamore Hill” – he pointed east to where Teddy Roosevelt’s summer White House still stood, about three miles away – “and he’s got maybe one Secret Service guy with him and a driver. And he just gets out of the car, and, like, tips his straw hat to some people, and goes in that door and walks up the stairs. Right?”

To enhance this image, I suggested, “But maybe he stops first for coffee and bagels.”

“Yeah… no – no bagels. Anyway, there was offices up there then, and he’s got a secretary – a guy – and maybe another guy who sends telegraph messages and goes to the post office to get the mail. And there’s, like, one telephone in the drugstore down the block.” He looked at me and asked, “Can you believe that?”

I thought I’d already said it was hard to believe, but to answer his question I replied, again, “Hard to believe.” In fact, Roosevelt did most of his work at Sagamore Hill, and rarely came to this office, but Anthony seemed enthused, and he had some point to make, so I let him go on.

He continued, “And it’s summer, and there’s no air-conditioning, and these guys all wore suits and ties, and wool underwear or something. Right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe they had an icebox up there.”

“Maybe.”

He inquired, “Did they have electric fans then?”

“Good question,” which reminded me of another good question, and I asked, “What’s the point?”

“Well, there are two points. Maybe three.”

“Can I have one?”

“Yeah. The first point is the building is for sale. Three million. Whaddaya think?”

“Buy it.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because you want it.”

“Right. And it’s a piece of history.”

“Priceless.” I glanced at my watch and said to him, “I need to get going. I’ll call a cab.”

“You’re always running off. First you show up, then you run off.”

This was true and astute. I guess I had an approach/avoidance response with the Bellarosas. I said, “I didn’t exactly show up this time. I was kidnapped. But I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Make it twelve. So, what I’m thinking is, I’ll get rid of that bookstore on the ground floor and put in a high-end moneymaker – some kind of Triple A chain boutique, or maybe like a food franchise place. Baskin-Robbins ice cream or a Starbucks. Right?”

“You need to speak to the village fathers about that.”

“Yeah. I know that.” He added, “That’s where you come in.”

“This is where I leave.”

“Come on, John. It’s no big deal. I buy the building, you handle the closing, then you see what the old shits are going to allow.” He motioned up and down the crowded street and said, “Look at this place. Money. I could get five times the rent if I push it as an historic location. Right?”

“Well-”

“Same with the upstairs spaces. Maybe a law firm. Like, rent Teddy Roosevelt’s office. The clients would love it. I get a decorator in and make it look like it did a hundred years ago. Except for the toilet and the air-conditioning.” He asked me, “Am I off base on this?”

“Anthony, I’ve been gone ten years. Get someone to work out the numbers for you.”

“Fuck the numbers. I’m buying history.”

“Right. Good luck.”

“And here’s my second point. And this has nothing to do with business. And here’s the question – what the fuck has happened to this country?”

Well, for one thing, the Mafia is still around. But people who are part of the problem never see themselves as part of the problem; the problem is always someone else. I replied, “The problem, as I see it, is fast-food chains and lawyers. Too many of both.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lot more than that. Do you think a President could walk down this street today with one bodyguard?”

“You do. And he’s in the car.”

“I’m not the fucking President, John.”

I noticed he didn’t say, “No one is trying to kill me, John,” which was what most people would have said.

He continued, “Julius Caesar walked out of the Senate building, with no bodyguards, no Praetorian guards, because that’s how it was then. But they stabbed him to death. And that was the end of the Republic, and the beginning of the emperors thinking they were like gods. Understand?”

“I get your point. But there’s no turning back to a simpler time. Or a safer time.”

“Right… but, standing here, I think… I don’t know. Maybe… like, we lost something.”

He didn’t finish whatever thoughts had been forming in his mind, and quite frankly, I was surprised that he even had thoughts like this. I recalled, though, that his father also harbored some half-expressed worldviews that made him unhappy. And, I suppose, after 9/11, Anthony, like a lot of people, had come to the understanding that there was more to his self-absorbed life than a difficult wife, a complex family history, a clinging mother, and a stressful occupation. Quite possibly, he was thinking, too, about his own mortality.

Anthony lit a cigarette and continued to look at the building across the road. Finally, he said, “When I was a kid at La Salle, one of the brothers said to us, ‘Anyone in this room can be President of the United States.’” Anthony took a drag on his cigarette and concluded, “He was full of shit.”

Funny, they told us the same thing in my prep school, but at St. Paul’s, it was a possibility. I said to him, “We shape our own destiny, Anthony. We have dreams and ambitions, and we make choices. I, for instance, have chosen to go home.”

He actually thought that was funny, but he didn’t think that was one of my choices. He said, “Here’s my other point – my thought-” The traffic light changed and he took my arm and we crossed the busy street. I would have given anything just then to run into the Reverend James Hunnings. “Father, may I introduce my friend and business partner, don Anthony Bellarosa? You remember his father, Frank. Oh, and here’s my mother. Harriet, this is Frank Bellarosa’s little boy, Tony, all grown up and now called Anthony. And, oh my goodness, there’s Susan. Susan, come here and meet the son of the man you whacked. Doesn’t he look like his father?”

All right, enough of that. We reached the opposite sidewalk without meeting anyone I knew, or having to stop so don Bellarosa could sign autographs.

Anthony said to me, “My father once said, ‘There’s only two kinds of men in this world. Men who work for other people, and men who work for themselves.’”

I didn’t reply, because I knew where this was going.

He continued, “So, like, I work for myself. You work for other people.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

He continued, “So, what I’m thinking is that I front you the money you need to open an office here and hang out your shingle. What do you think about that?”

“It’s a long commute from London.”

“Hey, fuck London. You belong here. You could be in Teddy Roosevelt’s old office, and do your tax law stuff here. Hire a few secretaries, and before you know it, you’re raking in big bucks.”

“And I wonder who my first client will be.”

“Wrong. See? You’re wrong on that. You and me have no connection.”

“Except the money you loan me.”

“I’m not loaning you the money. I’m fronting it. I’m investing in you. And if it doesn’t work out for you, then I lose my investment, and I just kick your ass out of the office. You have no downside.”

“I don’t get my legs broken or anything like that?”

“Whaddaya talking about?”

“And what have I done to deserve this opportunity?”

“You know. For all that you did for my father. For saving his life. For being the one guy who never wanted anything from him, and for not wanting any harm to come to him.”

Actually, I did want something from him – a little excitement in my life, and I got that. As for the other thing, after I realized he was having an affair with my wife, I wished him great harm, and I got that, too. But I wasn’t about to tell Anthony that Pop and I were even on that score. Instead, I said to him with impatience in my voice, “Tell me exactly what the hell you want from me. And no bullshit about you investing in my future with no strings attached.”

We were attracting a little attention, and Anthony glanced around and said in a quiet voice, “Come upstairs and we can talk about that.” He added, “The apartment is empty. The realtor is coming in half an hour. I got the key.”

“Tell me here and now.”

He ignored me, turned toward the door, and unlocked it, revealing a small foyer and a long, steep staircase. He said, “I’ll be upstairs.”

“I won’t.”

He stepped into the foyer, looked back at me, and said, “You want to hear what I have to say.”

He turned and climbed the stairs.

I turned and walked away.

As I moved along Main Street, thinking about a taxi or running the five or six miles home, another thought, which I’d been avoiding, intruded into my head.

If I really thought about this, and let my mind come to an inevitable conclusion, then I knew that Anthony Bellarosa, despite what he’d told me, was not going to allow Susan, his father’s murderer, to live down the street. Or live at all. He just couldn’t do that. And there were undoubtedly people waiting for him to take care of it. And if he didn’t take care of it, then his paesanos – including probably his brothers – would wonder what kind of don this was.

And yet Anthony wanted me to work for him, and the unspoken understanding was that if I did this, then Susan was safe. For the time being.

So… I needed to at least go along with this, until I could speak to Susan. It really is all about keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer.

I turned and walked back to the building.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The door was still ajar, and I climbed the stairs.

There was a landing at the top, and I opened the only door, which revealed the living room of an empty apartment. The carpet was worn, the beige paint was dingy, and the high plaster ceiling looked like it was ready to fall. An altogether depressing place, except that it had big windows and it was very sunny.

Another good feature was that the Mafia don seemed to have left. Then I heard a toilet flush, and a door at the far end of the room opened, and Anthony said, as if I’d been there the whole time, “The plumbing seems okay.” He looked around and announced, “All this shit needs to be ripped out. But I own a construction company – hey, you remember Dominic? He did the horse stable at your place.” He further informed me, “Sometime back in the thirties, they turned these offices into apartments. So, I get rid of the tenants, and I can get double the rent as office space. Right?”

I didn’t reply.

“I see big, fancy moldings, thick carpets, and mahogany doors. And you know what I see on that door? I see gold letters that say, ‘John Whitman Sutter, Attorney-at-Law.’ Can you see that?”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t seem to react to this hint of capitulation, figuring, correctly, that if I’d climbed the stairs, then I was ready to listen.

He said, “Let’s look at the other rooms.” He walked through a door, and I followed into a large corner bedroom from which I could see the streets below. The walls were painted white over peeling wallpaper, and the carpet looked like Astroturf. Anthony said to me, “The realtor said this was Roosevelt’s office.”

Actually, the realtor was mistaken, or more likely, lying. Roosevelt, as I said, kept his office at Sagamore Hill, and this was probably his secretary’s office. Anthony was being sold a bill of goods by a sharp realtor, who wanted to increase the value of the property. More interestingly, Anthony was totally buying it, the way people do who are more enthused than smart. If Frank was here, he’d smack his son on the head and say, “I got a bridge in Brooklyn I’ll sell you.”

Anthony went on, “Roosevelt could look out these windows and check out the broads.” He laughed, then speculated, “Hey, do you think he had a comare?”

I recalled that Frank used this word, and when I asked Susan, who spoke passable college Italian, what it meant, she said, “Godmother,” but that didn’t seem like the context in which Frank was using it. So I asked Jack Weinstein, Frank’s Jewish consigliere and my Mafia interpreter, and Jack said, with a smile, “It means, literally, ‘godmother,’ but it’s the married boys’ slang for their girlfriend or mistress. Like, ‘I’m going to see my godmother tonight.’ Funny.”

Hilarious. Here’s another example of how to use the word in a sentence: Frank had a comare named Susan.

Anthony asked, “Whaddaya think? You think he got blow jobs under his desk here?”

“I think the history books are silent on that.”

“Too bad. Anyway, I’ll get somebody to check with the local historical society about pictures of how this place looked when Roosevelt was here. We’re gonna reproduce that.”

Whether or not I wanted to work in a museum – I mean, whose office was this, anyway? In any case, a check with the Oyster Bay Historical Society would reveal to Anthony that Roosevelt didn’t actually work here. Following that, a check of the Oyster Bay Enterprise-Pilot obituaries would show a dead realtor.

He suggested, “We need a moose head on this wall.” He laughed, then led me into a smaller room, which looked the same as the bedroom, except it was even shabbier.

He said, “This is where your private secretary sits.” He further shared his vision with me and said, “You put a pull-out couch in here and get a little fica. Capisce?” He laughed.

How could this deal get any better? Sex, money, power, and even history.

There was a desk and file cabinet in this room, and I asked Anthony, “Who lived here?”

“A literary agent.” He added, “He got evicted, but the other tenants have leases, and I need to get them out.”

“Make them a fair offer.” Like, leave or die.

“Right. A good offer.” He led me into the small kitchen at the back of the apartment, and said, “We rip this out and make it the coffee room with a bar. So? What do you think?”

“I think this restoration will attract a lot of local press. Do you want that?”

“Good press for you. I’m a silent partner.”

“Not for long.”

“I know how to do this so my name never comes up. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“You’ve already spoken to the realtor, Anthony.”

“No. Anthony Stephano spoke to the realtor on the phone. And when the realtor gets here, my name is Anthony Stephano. Capisce?”

“People know your face.”

“Not like they knew my father’s face. I keep a low profile. The problem is the name, so we don’t use that name. And if anyone thinks my name is not Stephano, they’re not going to say shit. Right?”

I suggested to him, “If you used your real name, you could get the seller down to two million.”

He smiled. “Yeah? Why is that, John?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I took a wild guess and said, “Maybe he’d be nervous.”

He smiled again. Clearly he enjoyed the power and the glory of being don Bellarosa, and the notion that men would quake in their boots while talking business with him.

On the other hand, I detected, or imagined, that there had been a subtle shift in the business practices of this organization in the last decade – or maybe it was Anthony’s style that seemed different from what I remembered when I was an honorary mobster.

In any case, what remained the same was me; these people did not intimidate me. I was, after all, John Whitman Sutter, and even the dumbest goombah knew that there was a class of people who they weren’t supposed to whack, which was why, for instance, U.S. Attorney Alphonse Ferragamo was still alive. The Mafia had rules, and they did not like bad press, or any press at all.

But even if there was no danger of getting whacked, there was always the danger of getting seduced, corrupted, or manipulated. I think that’s where I was now. But, I reminded myself, I was here not because of any moral failing on my part, or any further need to screw up my life for kicks – I’d already done that. It was because of Susan.

This lady, of course, would normally be at the very top of any Do Not Hit list, except for the fact that she clipped a Mafia don. Whoops.

So, what I needed to do was… what?

Anthony returned to the subject and said, “I’m a legitimate businessman. Bell Enterprises. What maybe happened in the past is over. But if people want to think-”

“Anthony. Please. You’re insulting my intelligence.”

He didn’t seem happy that I interrupted his nonsense, but he said, “I’m telling you what you want to hear.”

“I don’t want to hear bullshit. The best thing I can hear from you on that subject is nothing.”

He lit a cigarette, then said to me, “Okay.”

“What do you want from me? And why?”

He sat on the windowsill, took a drag, and said, “Okay, here’s the real deal – I spoke to Jack Weinstein, my father’s old attorney. You remember him. He likes you. And he tells me that I need to speak to you, which I did. He says you are the smartest, most honest, most stand-up guy he’s ever dealt with. And this coming from a smart Jew who stood up to my father when he had to. But always in my father’s best interest. And Jack tells me I need a guy like you. Just to talk to. Just to get some advice. Like Jack did for my father. Somebody who is not a paesano. Understand?”

“You mean, like a consigliere?”

“Yeah… that only means counselor. People think it means… like something to do with the… people in organized crime. It’s Italian for counselor. Lawyers are called counselor. Right?”

“So, this is Jack Weinstein’s old job?”

“Yeah. And Jack says I also need somebody like the guys who used to follow the Caesars around and whisper in their ears, ‘You’re only a mortal man.’”

“Is that a full-time job?”

He forced a smile and said, “It was then. This guy reminded Caesar that he was a man, not a god. In other words, even Caesar has to take a shit like everybody else.”

“And you feel you need to be reminded of this?”

Again, he forced a smile and said, “Everybody does. Everybody who’s successful. And Jack thinks maybe I need this. Hey, everybody in Washington should have somebody like that following them around. Right?”

“It might help.”

As best I could figure, Jack Weinstein, a smart man, easily recognized that young Anthony was in over his head. But Jack saw the potential, and if he could keep Anthony alive long enough, then the young tiger would grow up big, strong, and hopefully smart enough to rule, kill, and scare the crap out of his enemies. And Jack, perceptive man that he was, thought of John Sutter to take the job that he once had with Frank, and maybe, too, to take the place of Anthony’s deceased father. I mean, was I flattered to be thought of as a possible father substitute to a young man whose ambition it was to grow up to be as dangerous and deceitful as his real father? And if I succeeded at this, maybe someday Anthony would want to fuck my wife if I had one.

This whole situation had a touch of irony and maybe farce to it – but it wasn’t funny. It would have been funny if Susan wasn’t in this room, but she was, and both Anthony and I knew that.

I said to him, “So, that’s what Jack thinks you need. A counselor and someone to tell you when your head is getting too big. What do you think you need from me?”

“I need someone I can trust, someone with no connections to my business. Someone who can’t gain by my loss. I need your brains and your no-bullshit advice.”

His father had additionally been impressed with my pedigree, my respectability, and my white-shoe law firm. The pedigree was still there, but Anthony wasn’t interested in that; he was buying brains and balls today. I asked him, “Advice on what?”

“On whatever I need advice on.”

“But then I’d hear things I don’t want to hear.”

“That won’t happen.” He added, “And even if it did, we have a lawyer-client relationship.”

“We do?”

“That’s up to you, Counselor.”

“What’s the pay?”

“Two hundred a year. That’s the annual retainer. And you can do whatever else you want to make a buck. Like work on getting my father’s assets back. Or tax law. In fact, I need a tax lawyer.”

I had the thought that he had more need for a priest and a smack in the ass from his mother than a consigliere or someone to tell him to get over himself. And maybe that should be my first piece of advice to him. Meanwhile, I asked, “Is that it?”

“Pretty much. You get this office, too.”

“Can I say no to the moose head?”

He smiled, stood, and threw his cigarette in the sink. “Sure. So?”

“Well… let me think about it.”

“That’s all I want you to do.” He added, “I know you’ll come to the right decision.”

“You can be sure of that.”

“And call Jack Weinstein. He wants to say hello. He’s in Florida. Maybe you want to go down there for a visit.”

I didn’t respond to that, and said, “I’ve got a busy day. Thank you for the ride.”

“Yeah. Go find Tony. He’ll take you home.”

“I need the exercise.”

We both walked into the living room, and I moved toward the exit door. I said to him, “If I take this office, the bookstore downstairs stays. Same rent.”

He didn’t reply.

I asked him, “Did you apologize to that waitress?”

“No.”

“Are you capable of taking any advice?”

“Yeah. When I trust and respect the person giving it.”

“I hope you find that person.”

“I did. Jack Weinstein. And my father. One is dying, and the other is dead. They referred me to you.”

“Okay. And don’t seem too anxious with this realtor. People sense when you want something so badly that you’ll pay anything for it. Make sure this is what you want. And check out his story about the building. Capisce?”

“Capisco.”

I left.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Well, if my arithmetic was correct, I could be a millionaire if I brokered the house deal between Susan and Amir Nasim, then recovered the Bellarosa assets that had been seized by the government.

Neither of these goals seemed attainable, but I did have a solid job offer in hand – consigliere to don Anthony Bellarosa. How would that look on my résumé? Would my law school classmates be impressed at my next reunion?

I’ve known people – like myself – who’ve played by the rules most of their lives, then something awful happened that made them lose faith in the system, or in God or country. These people are then open to temptation and become prime candidates for a fall from grace.

Well, I could justify any behavior or any bad decision, but at the end of the day, I needed to decide who John Sutter was.

But first, I needed to clean the bathroom. Elizabeth Allard would be here soon.

I didn’t grow up cleaning anything – not even in the Army, where I was an officer. I did clean my boat, however, so I was no stranger to Mr. Clean.

I finished the upstairs bathroom, then straightened out my bedroom in case Elizabeth really did want to see her old room.

Assuming we were going to move some items out, I was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a polo shirt.

The cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed 4:00, then 4:15. I kept busy by reviewing the pertinent paperwork in the dining room, which kept my mind off… well, Elizabeth.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. If my bad luck had returned, it was Susan. If not, it was Elizabeth. Really bad luck would be both of them.

I went to the door, but didn’t look through the peephole to see whom Fate had brought to my doorstep.

I opened the door to – Elizabeth. She smiled and said, “Let’s cut to the chase and have sex.”

Or did she say, “Sorry I’m late, traffic’s a mess”?

Assuming the latter, I replied, “Saturday traffic is always a mess,” then we hugged and air-kissed, and she entered.

She was also wearing jeans and running shoes, and a blue T-shirt that said “Smith,” which I assumed was not her alias, but rather her daughter’s alma mater. She said, “I’m dressed to work.”

“Good. Me, too.”

Then she said, “But I brought a change of clothes if you’ll let me buy you dinner later.”

A kaleidoscope of images raced through my mind – clothes on the floor, the bathroom, the shower, the bedroom, the bed-

“Unless you’re busy.”

“Busy? No. I’m free.” I reminded her, “I just got here.”

She smiled, then glanced around and observed, “Nothing changes here.”

“No. But I was happy to see that.” I said, “I made coffee.”

“Good.”

She put her large canvas handbag on the floor, and I led her into the kitchen. She asked, “How are you getting on here?”

“Fine.” I added, “It was good of your mother to extend an open invitation.”

“She likes you.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

Elizabeth smiled again and replied, “She doesn’t always show her feelings.”

“I have a mother like that.”

I poured coffee into two mugs, and asked, “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black.” She inquired, “How is your mother?”

“We’ve spoken twice since I’ve been back, but I haven’t actually seen her yet.”

“Really? I can’t imagine not seeing either of my children the minute they return from a trip.”

I thought about that and replied, “I haven’t seen Carolyn yet, and she’s a fifty-minute train ride away in Brooklyn.”

“Well, you’ve only been back… how long?”

“About two weeks.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit on the patio?”

We went out the back door and sat in two cast-iron chairs that had survived the scrap-metal drives of 1942-45. The table was of the same vintage, and I recalled that George used to scrape and paint the furniture every spring.

Elizabeth commented, “Mom and Dad had morning coffee out here nearly every day.”

“That’s very nice.” I asked her, “How is she doing?”

“She looked well this morning. Better than usual.”

In my experience, that’s not always a good sign with the terminally ill, but I said, “I’m glad to hear that.” I added, “I was going to stop by to see her today, but… I had an appointment in Oyster Bay.”

Elizabeth nodded, then looked around and remarked, “It’s so peaceful here.” She informed me, “I enjoyed growing up here. It was like… this secluded place with a wall around it… it kept the outside world away.”

“I guess that’s the point.”

She asked me, “Did you like living in the guest cottage?”

“I did after the Stanhopes moved to South Carolina.”

She smiled, but didn’t say anything like, “What assholes they were.” I suppose after years of living here as the child of estate workers, she’d been conditioned not to say anything derogatory about the lord and lady of the manor. Nevertheless, I continued, “If William hadn’t hit the lucky gene pool, he’d be cleaning toilets in Penn Station.”

“Now, now, John.”

“Sorry. Was that unkind?”

“You’re a bigger person than that.”

“Right. And Charlotte would be turning tricks on Eighth Avenue.”

She suppressed a smile, then changed the subject and said, “The crabapple trees look good.”

“I think Nasim has them pruned, sprayed, and fertilized.”

“I remember picking crabapples for weeks so Mom could make her jelly.”

I actually remembered Elizabeth as a young teenager climbing the trees that summer when Susan and I got married and moved into the guest cottage. I recalled, too, that Elizabeth went to boarding school, so I didn’t see much of her. As for Elizabeth’s tuition at boarding school – as with her college tuition – Ethel was still collecting on her special relationship with Augustus long past the time when the old gent even remembered getting laid.

Anyway, I said, “That reminds me – there are cases of crabapple jelly in the basement for you.”

“I know. I actually don’t like the stuff.” She laughed and continued, “After years of picking, washing, boiling, canning… well, but I’ll take it.”

“I took a jar.”

“Take another. Take a case.”

I smiled.

We sat there for a minute, surveying the grounds, then Elizabeth said, “Mom made me promise to harvest her garden.” She added, “But… she may be gone before it’s ready.” She asked me, “Did you speak to… what’s his name?”

“Amir Nasim. Yes, I did.” I continued, “He seems a decent enough man, and he has no problem with me staying on through the summer, but… he’d like to have his property back by September the first, unless Ethel is still… with us.”

She nodded, then asked me, “Did you ask him if he wanted to sell the gatehouse?”

“I did. He wants to use it himself.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I mean, sitting here, I’m getting nostalgic… I really loved this place.” She asked, “Do you think he’d change his mind?”

I saw no reason to keep Nasim’s concerns in confidence, so I replied, “He has some security issues.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means he believes that people from the old country may want to harm him.”

“My goodness… where’s he from? Iran?”

“Yes.” I offered my thoughts and said, “He may be paranoid. Or, if he’s correct, then the gatehouse may become available when he’s assassinated and they settle his estate.” I smiled to show I was joking.

Elizabeth pondered all that, then said, “That’s unbelievable…”

“I think so, too. But in any case, I believe he wants to put his security people in the gatehouse.” I thought about telling her of Nasim’s desire to buy Susan’s guest cottage, but I decided not to bring up Susan’s name at all. Instead, I kept it light and asked, “Isn’t there a local ordinance against political assassination?”

She forced a smile, but clearly she was disturbed by this news, and disappointed that the gatehouse was not for sale.

I stood and said, “Wait here.” I went into the overgrown kitchen garden and came back with the wooden sign and held it up by its half-rotted stake. I asked, “Do you remember this?”

She smiled and said, “I do. Can I have that?”

“Absolutely.” I laid the sign on the table, and we both looked at the faded and peeling paint. The black lettering had nearly disappeared, but it had left its outline on the white background and you could make out the words “Victory Garden.”

Elizabeth asked me, “Do you think I should put this on Mom’s grave?”

“Why not?”

She nodded and said, “That entire World War Two generation will be gone soon.”

“True.” I was especially anxious for William Stanhope to be gone. I mean, I didn’t wish him any harm, but the old bastard was in his late seventies, and he’d outlived whatever small usefulness he might have had.

On that subject, William had actually shown up for World War II, making him a member of the Greatest Generation, though barely. He didn’t talk much about his wartime experiences, but not because he’d been traumatized by the war. In fact, as I’d learned from Ethel Allard, William Stanhope had a rather easy war.

As Ethel related the story to me once, her employer and benefactor Augustus Stanhope had sold his seventy-five-foot motor yacht, The Sea Urchin, to the government for a dollar, as did many of the rich along the East Coast during this national emergency – you couldn’t get fuel anyway – and The Sea Urchin was refitted by the Coast Guard as an anti-submarine patrol boat. Then Augustus’ dilettante son, William, joined the Coast Guard, and in what could be described as a startling coincidence, Lieutenant (j.g.) William Stanhope was assigned to duty aboard the former Stanhope yacht. In another stroke of good fortune, The Sea Urchin was berthed at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and William, not wanting to use up scarce government housing, patriotically billeted himself at Stanhope Hall. William did go out on anti-submarine patrols and, depending on whom you speak to – William the Fearless, or Ethel the Red – he did or did not encounter German U-boats. Most likely not, and most probably he spent a good deal of shore time on Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons.

Meanwhile, George was fighting the more dangerous war in the Pacific, and William’s father, Augustus, took the opportunity to shag Ethel, who helped the war effort by growing her own vegetables in the Victory Garden.

And here we are now.

In some ways, we are coming to the end of an era, but these old dramas do not really end, because as someone wisely said, the past is prologue to the future, and short of a meteor strike and mass extinction, the dramas of each generation roll on into the next.

Elizabeth asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“About… the generations who’ve lived here, in war and peace.”

She nodded and commented, “Who would have thought, in 1945, that we’d be surrounded by subdivisions, and that an Iranian would be living in Stanhope Hall?”

I didn’t reply.

She asked me, “Did you see what happened to Alhambra?”

“I caught a peek of it.”

“It’s awful.” She asked, “Do you remember the estate-? Oh, I forgot… sorry.”

“It really doesn’t bother me.”

“Good.” She looked at me, hesitated, then said, “I think it does.”

“Maybe because I’m back.”

“Are you staying?”

Again, the threshold question, and as with Anthony Bellarosa, the answer would partly determine whether Elizabeth and I had any serious business to discuss. I replied, “I’m going to give it a few months, then I can make a more informed decision.”

“And what do you think is going to happen in a few months to help you with this informed decision?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

She smiled. “No, but that’s so typically male. Informed decision. How do you feel? Right now.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

She laughed. “All right. I don’t mean to pry.”

“Good.” I stood and asked, “Ready to wade through paperwork?”

She stood also, and as we moved toward the kitchen door, she asked, “How long will this take?”

“Less than an hour. Then maybe an hour to pack your car with any personal items you may want to take now.”

She glanced at her watch and said, “I’d like to have a drink in my hand by six o’clock.”

“That’s part of my service.”

I opened the screen door for her and she went inside.

As I followed, it occurred to me that we both had so many memories of Stanhope Hall – good and bad – that whatever happened today – good or bad – would be emotional and partly influenced by other people, living and dead, who were still here, in one form or another.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

We sat side by side at the dining room table, and I, in my organized and professional manner, identified documents, presented them to Elizabeth for reading, and explained the obtuse language when necessary. She was wearing a nice lilac scent.

She said to me, “I’m happy that it’s you who are doing this, John.”

“I’m glad I’m able to do it.”

“Did you come back just for this?”

“Well, I came to see your mother, of course.” I added, “And I need to move my things out of here.”

Without hesitation, she offered, “You can move your things into my house. I have plenty of room.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on that.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’d offer you a room, but my divorce settlement makes my alimony dependent on me not cohabitating.”

I joked, “Let me see that divorce settlement.”

She smiled, then clarified, “I mean, we wouldn’t be cohabitating – I’d just make a room available to you… the way Mom did. But Tom would jump on that as soon as he found out.”

“You could tell Tom that I’m on his team.”

She laughed and said, “You have a reputation as a notorious heterosexual.”

I smiled.

She stayed silent awhile before thinking out loud, “Well… it’s a measly alimony, for only a few years…” She said to me, “If you really need a place, you’re welcome to use my guest room.”

“Thank you.” I added, “I would insist on paying you a rent equal to your measly alimony.” I reminded her, “I have this place for a while, then I need to return to London to tidy up things there.”

She nodded, and we went back to the paperwork.

I came across a deed dated August 23, 1943, conveying a life tenancy from Mr. Augustus Phillip Stanhope, property owner, to Mrs. Ethel Hope Allard, domestic servant, and her husband, Mr. George Henry Allard, then serving overseas with the Armed Forces of the United States.

So I could make the assumption that Mr. Stanhope and Mrs. Allard had, prior to this date, entered into their intimate relationship that led to this generous conveyance. In legal terms, this conveyance was obviously supported by the repeated receipt of sufficient consideration – meaning here, multiple sex acts – though these particular considerations from Mrs. Allard to Mr. Stanhope could not be candidly described in this document.

Regarding that, did anyone question Augustus Stanhope’s generosity at the time? Even today, bells would go off. Unless, of course, this was kept secret until Augustus popped off, and Ethel dragged it out to show William Stanhope before he got any ideas about getting rid of the Allards, or before he demanded rent from their meager pay.

Also, I wondered, when did George Allard learn that he was living rent-free, for life, in the Stanhope gatehouse? And how did Ethel explain this to her new husband when he returned from the war? “George, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

In any case, William, at some point, knew about the life tenancy in his newly inherited property, and it was a constant thorn in his side, especially when he put the estate up for sale and had to reveal the existence of this encumbrance of unknown duration. I recalled that Frank Bellarosa, when he bought Stanhope Hall, was not thrilled with having Ethel – George was deceased by then – living on his property. But Frank had said to me philosophically, “Maybe she’s good luck. And how long can she live?” Answer: ten years longer than you, Frank.

In any case, this document wasn’t relevant to the business at hand, so I casually slid it back into its folder. But Elizabeth asked, “What was that?”

“Oh, just the life tenancy grant to your parents. It needs to stay here until the time comes when it’s moot.”

“Can I see it?”

“Well… sure.” I placed it in front of her, and she read the single-page document, then passed it back to me. I said, “Next, we have-”

“Why do you think Augustus Stanhope gave my parents a life tenancy in this house?”

“As it says, for devoted and faithful service.”

“They were in their twenties then.”

“Right. He doesn’t say long service.”

“What am I not understanding?”

Oh, you don’t want to know that, Elizabeth. I suggested, “You should ask your mother.” I shuffled through a few papers. “Okay, so here we have your mother’s last three Federal tax returns-”

“Mom said it was a reward for long service.”

Faced with having to respond with the simple truth or a thin lie, I chose neither and continued, “You need to contact your mother’s accountant…” I glanced at her and saw she was looking above the fireplace at the large framed photo portrait of her parents on their wedding day.

I continued, “Your mother has a paid-up life insurance policy with a death benefit of ten thousand dollars. Here is the actual policy, and you should put it in a safe place.”

Elizabeth looked away from the photograph and said, “She was very beautiful.”

“Indeed, she was. Still is.”

“My father looked so handsome in that white uniform.”

I looked at the colored photo portrait and agreed, “They were a handsome couple.”

She didn’t reply, and when I glanced at her again, I saw she had tears in her eyes. John Whitman Sutter, Esq., who’d done this sort of work before, was prepared, and I took a clean handkerchief from my pocket and put it in her hand.

She dabbed at her eyes and said, “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Let me get you some water.” I stood and went into the kitchen.

As I said, I did this for a living once. Most of the time, I was a hotshot Wall Street tax lawyer in the city, but in my Locust Valley office I did wills, trusts, health care proxies, and that sort of thing. Half my clients were wealthy old dowagers and grumpy old men who spent a lot of time thinking of people to put in their wills before disinheriting them a week later.

Also, the last will and testament, along with related papers, sometimes revealed a family secret or two – an institutionalized sibling, an illegitimate child, two mistresses in Manhattan, and so forth. I’d learned how to handle this with professional stoicism, though now and then, even I had been shocked, surprised, saddened, and often amused.

Ethel Allard’s adultery was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, especially given the passage of half a century. But it’s always a bit of a jolt to the adult child when he or she discovers that Mommy had a lover, and Daddy was diving into the steno pool.

In any case, Elizabeth, divorced, with two grown children, a deceased father, and a dying mother, was maybe lonely, and surely emotionally distraught, and thus vulnerable.

So… I filled a glass with tap water. So, nothing should or would happen tonight that we’d regret, or feel guilty about in the morning. Right?

I returned to the dining room and saw that Elizabeth had composed herself. I handed her the water and suggested, “Let’s take a break. Would you like to walk?”

“I want to finish this.” She promised, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

We cleared up the peripheral paperwork, and I opened the envelope that held Ethel’s last will and testament. I said, “I drew up this will after your father died, and I see that it’s held up pretty well over the years.” Continuing in my official tone of voice, I asked her, “Have you read this will?”

“I have.”

“Do you want to review this will with her?”

“I don’t want to read her will to her on her deathbed.”

“I understand.” And I wouldn’t want Ethel to increase her five-hundred-dollar bequest to St. Mark’s. I said, “I’ll keep this copy here for when the time comes.”

Elizabeth nodded, then said, “She didn’t leave you anything.”

“Why should she?”

“For all you’ve done for her and for Dad.”

I replied, “What little I’ve done was done in friendship. And your mother reciprocated by letting me use this house for storage.” Though she did charge me rent when I lived here ten years ago, and she just reinstated the rent.

Elizabeth said, “I understand. But I’d feel better if her estate… I’m the executor… paid you a fee.”

I wondered if Elizabeth thought I needed the money. I did, but I wasn’t destitute. In fact, I was making a good living in London, but unfortunately I’d brought with me to London the American habit of living beyond my means. And now I was on an extended, unpaid sabbatical.

But things were looking up. I had an offer from an old, established Italian-American firm. La Cosa Nostra.

Elizabeth said again, “I’d really feel better if you were paid for your professional services.”

I replied, “All right, but I’ll take my fee in crabapple jelly.”

She smiled and said, “And dinner is on me tonight.”

“Deal.” I stacked a dozen folders in front of her and said, “Take these with you and put them in a safe place. I’ll try to visit Ethel tomorrow or Monday.”

She asked me, “Is that it?”

“That’s it for the paperwork, except for this inventory I’ve made of personal property, including your father’s.” I slid three sheets of paper toward her, on which I’d handwritten the inventory, and asked, “Do you want to go through this?”

“Not really.”

“Well, look it over later. Meanwhile, item four is sixty-two dollars in cash that I found in the cookie jar when I was looking for cookies.” I put an envelope in front of her and said, “If you count that and initial item four, you can have the cash now.”

She dropped the envelope in her canvas bag without counting the money, initialed where indicated, and said, “This will buy us a nice bottle of wine.”

“Don’t drink up your whole inheritance.”

“Why not?” She asked again, “Is that it?”

“We’re getting close.”

I handed her another envelope and said, “These are your mother’s funeral instructions.”

Elizabeth informed me, “I already have a photocopy of this with up-to-the-minute changes.”

I sensed that Elizabeth had become a little impatient with her mother’s precise preparations for the big event. I said, “Well, take this anyway.”

She threw the envelope in her canvas bag and said, “I love her, but she drives me nuts – right to the end.”

I replied, “I’m sure our children say the same about us.”

She smiled, then said, “This reminds me – that envelope that my mother wanted me to give you – I spoke to her and apparently she wants me to wait until she’s gone.”

I nodded, thinking it was probably a bill for the rent. Or instructions on what to wear to her funeral.

Elizabeth inquired, “So, are we done here?”

I stood and said, “We’re done here. But you need to find the dress your mother wants to wear. Meanwhile, I’ll put that garden sign in your car, and I’d like you to take that photo portrait, and whatever else you’d like to take with you tonight.”

She stood also, and we looked at each other, then she asked me, “Will you come up with me?”

“No. You should go to her room by yourself.” I added, “And you can take a look at your old room.”

She nodded, then said, “The car’s unlocked.” She left the dining room, and I could hear her making her way up the steep, narrow staircase to the two bedrooms above.

I don’t normally talk myself out of sex, but there is a time and place for everything. Even sex. But maybe I was reading Elizabeth wrong, and she was not actually in the mood for love with a handsome stranger from across the sea.

“Dear Ms. Post, I am the attorney of record for an elderly lady who is dying – I wrote to you about her – and her beautiful daughter is the executrix of her estate, so we are working closely together on this. My question is, Should I have sex with her? (Signed) Confused on Long Island (again).”

I think I know what Ms. Post would say: “Dear COLI, No. P.S. What happened to the ex-wife down the road? P.P.S. You are headed for trouble, buddy.”

Anyway, I took the framed photo portrait off the wall above the fireplace and noticed how dingy the wallpaper around it was. A new decorating project for Mrs. Nasim.

I carried the portrait outside to where Elizabeth had parked her SUV next to my Taurus, and I saw that it was a BMW, which suggested some degree of business success, or a good divorce attorney. I also saw a garment bag hanging in the rear, and I guessed that was Elizabeth’s dinner clothing for tonight.

I opened the cargo compartment and set the portrait facedown, noticing on the paper backing some handwriting. I pulled the portrait toward me and read the words, written with a fountain pen, in what looked like Ethel’s hand: George Henry Allard and Ethel Hope Purvis, married June 13, 1942, St. Mark’s, Locust Valley, Long Island.

And under that, in the same feminine hand, Come home safe, my darling.

And beneath that, in George’s hand, which I also recognized, My sweet wife, I will count the days until we are together again.

I slid the portrait forward and closed the tailgate. Well, I thought, hopefully, they’ll be together again soon.

I thought, too, perhaps cynically, that all marriages start with hope and optimism, love and yearning, but the years take their toll. And in this case, by August of 1943, fourteen months after these words of love and devotion were written, Ethel had succumbed to loneliness, or lust, or had been seduced by money and power – or, recalling that scene ten years ago at the cemetery when Ethel had disappeared from George’s grave and I’d found her at Augustus’ grave – quite possibly she’d actually fallen in love with Augustus Stanhope. Or all of the above.

In any case, Ethel and George had worked it out and spent the next half century together, happily, I think, living in this little house together, raising their daughter, and doing increasingly lighter work on the grand estate whose walls and lonely acres kept the encroaching world away, and kept them, in some mysterious way, a forever-young estate couple who’d met here, fallen in love, married, and never left home.

As I was walking toward the garden path that ran between the gatehouse and the wall, I heard a vehicle crunching the gravel behind me. I turned to see a white Lexus SUV heading toward the open gates, driven by Susan Stanhope Sutter.

The Lexus slowed, and we made eye contact. She’d seen the BMW, of course, and may have known to whom it belonged, but even if she didn’t, she knew I had company of some sort.

It’s awkward making eye contact with the former love of your life, into whose eyes you no longer wish to look, and I didn’t know what to do. Wave? Blow a kiss? Flip the bird? Ms. Post? Help me.

It was Susan who waved, almost perfunctorily, then she accelerated through the gates, making a hard, tire-screeching right onto Grace Lane.

I noticed that my mood had darkened. Why does Susan Sutter still have the power to affect my frame of mind?

I needed to answer that question honestly, before I could move on.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Elizabeth and I filled her BMW with her parents’ personal items that she wanted to take that night, such as photo albums, the family Bible, and other odds and ends that were priceless and irreplaceable. We piled the rest of the personal property, including George’s naval uniforms and Ethel’s wedding gown, into the foyer to be moved another day.

It was very sad for Elizabeth, of course, and I, too, found myself thinking about life and death, and the things we leave behind.

On one of our trips to her vehicle, she retrieved her garment bag and a makeup case and took them up to her mother’s room.

By the time the cuckoo clock struck six, Elizabeth was sitting in her mother’s rocker in the living room, and I was sitting in George’s wingback chair across from her. On the coffee table was the three-page inventory list, most of the items now checked. Also on the table were two mismatched wineglasses that I’d filled from a bottle of Banfi Brunello, one of three Tuscan reds I’d bought in Locust Valley after my Oyster Bay adventure with Anthony. I’d also picked up some cheese and crackers at a food shop and a plastic tray of pre-cut vegetables. I stuck to the Brie.

Elizabeth dipped a carrot and said to me, “You should have some vegetables.”

“Vegetables are a choking hazard.”

She smiled, nibbled at the carrot, then sipped her wine.

We were both tired, and a little sweaty and dusty from the trips to the basement and the attic, and we needed a shower.

She said to me, “I made a seven-thirty reservation at The Creek. Is that all right?”

I informed her, “I think I’m persona non grata there.”

“Really? Why…? Oh… I guess when Susan…”

I finished her sentence: “…shot her Mafia lover.” I smiled and added, “They’re very stuffy there.”

Elizabeth forced a smile, then informed me, “Actually, Susan has rejoined the club. We had lunch there. So maybe it’s not a problem. But we can go to a restaurant.”

I finished my wine and poured another. So let me get this straight – I had been on thin ice at The Creek because I’d brought Mr. Frank Bellarosa, a Mafia gentleman, and his gaudily dressed wife, Anna, to the club for dinner; but it was Susan’s murder of said Mafia gentleman that actually got us booted. And now, Susan Stanhope Sutter – Stanhope is the operative word here – had the nerve to apply for membership and was readmitted. Meanwhile, if I reapplied, I’m sure I’d discover that I was still blackballed.

Nevertheless, I said, “The Creek is fine if you don’t mind a disciplinary letter to you from the Board of Governors.”

She thought about that, smiled, and replied, “That could be fun.”

As I refilled her glass, I also thought about running into everyone I used to know there, including Susan. But what the hell. It could be fun.

Elizabeth suggested, “Or we could stay here.”

I looked at her in the dim light, and as I said, I’m not good at reading a woman’s signals, but Elizabeth’s signal was loud and clear. I replied, “Let’s think about that.”

“Thinking is not what we want to do.”

I nodded, then changed the subject. “I have something for you.” I stood, went into the dining room, and found Susan’s photographs of the Allards.

I knelt beside Elizabeth’s chair and said, “Susan took most of these, and I want you to have them, though I’d like to make a few copies for myself.”

She took the stack of photos and went through them, making appropriate remarks about each one, such as, “I can’t believe how many times we were all together… I barely remember these… Oh, look, here’s my college graduation… and there’s you, John, with your arm around me and Dad… oh, God, was I a dork, or what?”

“No, you were not. I’ll take a copy of that one.”

“No, no.”

“You look great with straight black hair.”

“Oh my God – what was I thinking?”

We came across a posed photograph taken on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall, occasion unknown or forgotten. Standing in the photo is Ethel, still attractive in late middle age, and George, his hair still brown, and Augustus Stanhope, late into his dotage, sitting in a rocker with a blanket on his lap. Also, on his lap is a girl of about six or seven, and I realized it was Elizabeth.

She joked, “That’s not me.”

“It looks like you.”

She stared at the photograph, then said, “My mother took care of him before they had to hire around-the-clock nurses.” Elizabeth put the photo on the table with the others and added, “Mom was very fond of him.”

I replied, “He was a gentleman.” I added, of course, “Very unlike his son.”

We dropped that subject and continued on through the stack of photos.

Elizabeth commented at one point, “I can’t believe how many of these people are dead.”

I nodded.

She asked me, “Were you happy then?”

“I was. But I didn’t always know it. How about you?”

“I think I was happy.” She changed the subject. “Oh, here are Edward and Carolyn. They’re so cute.”

And so we continued through the photographic time trip, both of us, I think, realizing how much our lives had intersected, and yet how little we knew each other.

Because Susan had taken most of these pictures, she wasn’t in many of them, but we came across a photo of Susan and Elizabeth together, taken at the Stanhope annual Christmas party in the mansion. Elizabeth stared at it and said, “She is a beautiful woman.”

I didn’t comment.

Elizabeth continued, “She was very nice at lunch.”

I had no intention of asking about the lunch, so I stood and poured the remainder of the wine into our glasses.

Elizabeth finished with the photos and said, “I’ll have them all copied for you.”

“Thank you.”

She sat silently for a while, sipping her wine, then informed me, “I’ve heard that… Bellarosa’s son has moved into one of the Alhambra houses.”

I nodded.

She remained silent again, then asked me, “Do you think…? I mean, could that be a problem for Susan?”

I asked, “What did Susan think?”

Elizabeth glanced at me, then replied, “She didn’t think so,” then added, “She seemed not at all concerned.”

“Good.”

“But… well, I would be.”

I didn’t reply and opened the second bottle of Tuscan red, a Cabreo Il Borgo, and we sat silently, drinking wine and getting a little tipsy.

We seemed to have run out of things to talk about; or, to put it another way, someone needed to address the subject of sex or supper. Elizabeth had already broached that subject, and I’d let it pass, but she tried another approach and announced, “I’m too drunk to drive.” She asked, “Can you drive?”

“No.”

“Then let’s stay here.”

I could, of course, call a taxi for her, and that’s what a real gentleman would do – or a limp-dicked, half-wit poor excuse of a man. So I said, “Let’s stay here.”

“That’s a good idea.” She finished her wine, stood, and said, “I need to shower.”

I, too, stood and watched her walk, a little unsteadily, into the foyer.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow. “Dear Ms. Post-”

“Dear COLI, Just fuck her already.”

“Right.” I moved toward the foyer, then hesitated. I seemed to recall that I’d already decided that Elizabeth was emotionally distraught and vulnerable, and I should not take advantage of that. On a more selfish level, I didn’t want to complicate my life at this time. And Elizabeth Allard Corbet would be a major complication.

On the other hand… I mean, this was her idea.

My head said no, my heart said maybe, and my dick was pointing toward the staircase. Dick wins every time.

But first, I uncorked the third bottle of wine, took the two glasses, and went to the foot of the stairs, where I heard a door close on the second floor.

I made my way up the steps to the small hallway. The bathroom was straight ahead, her mother’s room was to the left, and my room – her old room – was to the right. All three doors were closed, so I opened mine and saw she wasn’t there. I set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand. I could now hear the shower running in the bathroom.

I’ve been here before, on the outside of a closed bathroom door while the lady inside was showering, and I had no clear, verbal invitation to share the shower. “Dear Ms. Post-”

“Hey, stupid, see if the door is unlocked.”

“Right.” I went back to the bathroom door and gently tried the knob. Locked.

I went back to my bedroom, leaving the door open, and I poured two glasses of wine and sat in the armchair.

The shower stopped. I opened a copy of Time magazine, sipped my wine, and read.

A few minutes later, while I was reading a fascinating article about something or other, I heard the bathroom door open, and Elizabeth poked her head through my door, wrapped in a large bath towel, and drying her hair with another towel. She said to me, “Shower’s free.”

“Good.” I stood and asked, “Feel better?”

“Terrific.” Then she turned and walked into her mother’s room and closed the door. I could hear the hair dryer running.

First-time sex is like a first dance. Who’s leading whom? Am I dancing too close, or too far? Do I need a shower? Yes.

I went into the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked, stripped and threw my clothes in the corner on top of hers, then got in the shower, still not absolutely certain where this was going.

After I finished, I dried off with the last towel, wrapped it around my waist, and exited into the hallway. Her bedroom door was still closed, but it was quiet in there. I entered my room and found her in my chair, her legs crossed, sipping wine, reading my magazine, and wearing my Yale Crew T-shirt, and not much else, except a little makeup.

I said, “That shirt looks good on you.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

I think I knew where this was going.

I took my wine, sat on the bed opposite her chair, and we clinked glasses and sipped without talking.

She looked around at the small room, the old furniture, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, and the sun-bleached drapes, then said, “I spent most of my first twenty-one years here.”

I didn’t respond.

“I always came home on school breaks,” she continued, and I could hear that her voice was a little tired and slurred. “It always felt like home… it was always here… and now, it’s time to move on.”

I nodded.

She announced, “I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“Of course.”

She stretched out her legs and put her feet on my lap. She said, “My feet are sore from all that moving.”

I put down my wine and rubbed her feet.

She put her head back, closed her eyes and murmured, “Oooh… that feels sooo good.”

Her T-shirt – my T-shirt – had ridden north, and I could see that the carpet matched the drapes.

I’ve been here before, too, and I never felt comfortable dipping my pen in a client’s inkwell. But Elizabeth was also a social acquaintance, and not really a client, and… well, the line was already crossed. So… I mean, not to proceed at this point would be rude.

She held out her empty glass, and I refilled it.

It was past 7:00 P.M., still light outside, and the open window let in a nice breeze and the sounds of birds chirping. Now and then I could hear a vehicle passing on Grace Lane, but no one drove into the gravel driveway.

She finished her wine, put her feet on the floor, and raised herself up from the armchair.

I, too, stood, and she put her arms around my shoulders and buried her face in my bare chest.

I put my arms around her, and I could feel she was limp and barely standing – as opposed to Bad John who was not limp and standing fully erect. I lifted her and laid her down on the sheets with her head on the pillow.

She stared up at the ceiling, then tears welled up in her eyes.

I took some tissues from a box on the nightstand and put them in her hand, and Good John suggested, “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

She nodded, and I got the quilt from the foot of the bed and laid it over her.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I want to… but it’s just… too much. Everything. I’m too sad.”

“I understand.” I also understood that Elizabeth was possibly considering her relationship with Susan, and that made two of us.

“Maybe later,” she said.

I didn’t reply.

“I like you.”

“I like you.”

I opened the small closet, found a pair of khakis and a golf shirt, and got a pair of shorts from the dresser. I took off my towel, and I saw she was watching me. She asked, “Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.” I pulled on my shorts, pants, and shirt and asked her, “Do you need anything?”

She shook her head.

“See you later.” I headed toward the door.

She said, “Kiss me good night.”

I went back to the bed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, then on the lips, and wiped her eyes with a tissue, then left the room and closed the door.

I went downstairs, got a beer from the refrigerator, and sat out on the back patio.

The night was getting cool, and the setting sun cast long shadows across the lawn. In the distance, if I cared to look, was Susan’s house, and I understood that it was Susan’s proximity and her literal and figurative presence that was causing me the same conflict that Elizabeth probably felt.

And my conflicts and indecisions went beyond the issue of women; my dealings with Anthony Bellarosa, for instance, were affected by Susan’s presence, as was my uncertainty about staying here, or returning to London, or going someplace new.

So, I needed to speak to Susan to put these issues to rest, to find out how much – or how little – she actually mattered.

I finished my beer, put my feet on the table, and looked up at the darkening sky. The light pollution from the encroaching subdivisions cast an artificial glow on the horizon, but overhead it was as I remembered it; a beautiful watercolor blue and pink twilight, and in the east the stars were starting to blink on in the purple sky.

The sound of a vehicle on the gravel broke into my stargazing, and I turned as the vehicle passed the gatehouse and saw that it was a white Lexus SUV. It stopped, then moved on slowly toward the guest cottage.

We had been separated for a decade by oceans and continents, and now we were a few minutes’ walk from each other, but still separated by anger, pride, and history, which was harder to overcome than continents and oceans.

I’d always felt that we’d parted in haste, without a full accounting of why we were going our separate ways, and as a result, neither of us, I think, was really able to move on. We needed to revisit the past, no matter how painful that would be. And the time to do that was now.

CHAPTER TWENTY

As the sun came over the estate wall and through the kitchen window, I brewed a pot of coffee and took a mug out onto the patio, where I counted four empty beer bottles on the table.

I’d slept in my clothes on the couch, and my only trip up the stairs was to use the bathroom. To the best of my knowledge, Elizabeth never came downstairs.

I sipped coffee from my steaming mug and watched the morning mist rise from the lawn and garden.

As we used to say in college, “Getting laid is no big deal, but not getting laid is a very big deal.”

On a more positive note, that was the right move. No involvement, no complications.

On the other hand, sex or no sex, Elizabeth and I had connected on some level. I liked her, and she was part of my past, and therefore possibly part of my future. I’d spent ten years sleeping with strangers; it might be nice to sleep with someone I knew. If nothing else, I now had a place to store my property, and a guest room if I needed one. And, hopefully, I had a friend.

I heard the screen door squeak open, and I turned to see Elizabeth walking barefoot across the dewy patio, wrapped in my old bathrobe and carrying a mug of coffee.

She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

She asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. How about you?”

“I… it was strange sleeping in my old room.” She added, “I had sad dreams… about being a young girl again… and Mom and Dad… I woke up a few times, crying.”

I nodded and looked at her, then we held hands. She still looked very sad, then seemed to shake it off and said, “Do you know this poem? ‘Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight.’”

“I’ve heard it.”

“That’s what I was thinking last night.”

I nodded and squeezed her hand.

She said to me, “I thought you’d come up.”

“Believe me, I thought about it.”

She smiled, then said, “Well, I don’t think I was in a very romantic mood.”

“No. You wanted to be a child again, just for one night.”

She looked at me, nodded, then said, “But… I wanted your company. So I came downstairs. You were snoring on the couch.”

“Do I snore?”

“God, I thought you were running the vacuum cleaner.”

I smiled and said, “Red wine makes me snore.”

“No more red wine for you.” She looked at the empty beer bottles and asked, “Did you have people over?”

I smiled again and replied, “I was killing garden slugs.”

We sat down at the table, still holding hands, sipping coffee. The sun was well above the wall now, and sunlight streamed through the trees into the garden and patio, burning through the ground mist. It was quiet except for the morning birds chirping away, and the occasional vehicle on Grace Lane beyond the wall.

Elizabeth said, “I love this time of day.”

“Me, too.”

We stayed silent awhile, appreciating the dawn of a beautiful summer day.

Finally, she asked me, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Well… you might think this is silly… and I’m almost embarrassed… but when I was about… maybe sixteen, I developed a major crush on you.”

I smiled. “Did you?”

She laughed, then continued, “Even though you were married… I thought about you sometimes when I was in college, and whenever I came home and saw you… but then I grew up and got over it.”

“That’s good.” I added, “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. I never flirted, did I?”

I thought about that, and replied “No, you didn’t.”

“I was a good girl.”

“Still are.”

“Well… let’s not go there.”

I smiled.

Elizabeth continued, “And then, when all that happened with Susan and Frank Bellarosa, I couldn’t believe what I’d heard from Mom when you moved in here… then, after Susan shot him… I wanted to call you or come by. Actually, I dropped in to see Mom a few times, but you weren’t here… and then Mom said that you were leaving.”

I didn’t know quite what to say, but I replied, “That’s very nice. I could have used someone to talk to.”

“I know. Mom said you were… withdrawn. But I was married, and I wasn’t sure in my own mind if I was concerned as a friend, or… something else.”

“I understand.” I added, “I’m very flattered.”

“Are you? Well, you’re too modest, John. I think you left here because the women were all over you as soon as you were separated, and you fled for your life.”

“This is true.”

She smiled, then went on, “And here’s the rest of my secret – when I heard that you were about to begin a sail around the world, I wished that you would take me with you.”

I looked at her and our eyes met. I said, not altogether insincerely, “I wish I’d known.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.”

“Well, I’m not just saying it.”

“I know. Anyway, it was just a silly fantasy. I had a husband and two children. Even if you’d asked, I would have had to say no. Because of the children.” She added, “Not to mention Mom. I think she was on to me, and not happy.”

I thought about all of that and about how the course of our lives can change so quickly if something is said, or not said. We feel one thing, and we say another, because that’s how we’re brought up. We have our dreams and our fantasies, though we rarely act on them. We all are, I think, more frightened than hopeful, and more self-sacrificing – the children, the spouse, the job, the community – than selfish. And that, I suppose, is good in the larger sense of maintaining a civilized society. I mean, if everyone acted like Susan Sutter, we’d all be shooting our lovers or our spouses, or both, or just running off to find love, happiness, and a life without responsibilities.

In some odd way, as angry as I was at Susan for her behavior, I almost envied her for her passion, her ability to break with her rigid upbringing and with her stifling social class. Or she was just nuts.

And while she was breaking the rules, she’d also broken the law. Murder. She’d gotten a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card on that, but Mr. Anthony Bellarosa was holding a past-due bill that he might decide to collect.

Elizabeth asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“About not following the rules. And taking chances. And using more heart and less brain.”

She nodded and said, somewhat astutely, “Susan did that. And so did Tom. I never did, but you did when you sailed around the world.”

“Well, I was put in that enviable position of having nothing left to lose. The only wrong move I could have made was to stay here and go to marriage counseling.”

She smiled, and again with some insight pointed out, “You should try to figure out how your marriage got to that point. And you should make sure you don’t go there again. Assuming you remarry.”

The word “marry,” and all its derivations and synonyms, upsets my stomach, so I changed the subject and asked, “Can I get you more coffee?”

“No, thanks. But let me make you breakfast.”

“That’s all right.”

“I insist. Compensation for last night.”

I didn’t know if she meant compensation for not buying me dinner or for not having sex. I said, “Well, there’s not much in the refrigerator.”

“I saw that. But we can split that English muffin, and there’s crab-apple jelly, club soda, and two beers left.”

“How did that English muffin get in there?”

She stood and said, “I see you didn’t plan on me staying the night.”

“No…” Actually, I did plan on it, but I didn’t plan for it. I said, “We can go to a coffee shop.”

“No. Just relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.” So I sat there, thinking about our post-non-coital conversation, which was not much different than if we’d done it.

Bottom line on this was that I really liked Elizabeth, and I’d really wanted to sleep with her, but now I was glad I didn’t, and I’d make sure it didn’t happen and we could be just friends.

Maybe I should try that again. I’d have sex with her in a heartbeat. Why is this so complicated?

She reappeared with the coffee pot, refilled my cup, and said, “Breakfast will be served shortly, Mr. Sutter.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I like my muffins well done and my crab-apple jelly on the side.”

“Very good, sir.” She bent over, tousled my hair, kissed my lips, then went inside.

I could feel Little John waking up and stretching. Maybe I needed a cold shower.

I sipped my coffee and tried to think about things other than sex, or Elizabeth’s perfect body, or my T-shirt riding up to her smooth, creamy white inner thighs, and her breasts nearly popping out of that bath towel last night, and how they almost fell out of my bathrobe when she bent over just now. Instead, I thought about… well, sex was all I could think about.

Elizabeth returned with a tray on which was the toasted English muffin split in two, an open jar of the jelly, a bottle of my Hildon sparkling water, the coffee pot, and the leftover cheese, crackers, and vegetables from last night. She set the tray on the table and said, “Breakfast is served.”

“Thank you. Will you join me?”

“Oh, sir, that is not permitted. But if you insist.” She sat and poured water into two glasses, saying, “Your breakfast beer is being chilled, sir.”

“Thank you.” I mean, this was a little funny, but hanging over the humor was the not-so-distant past when the Allards waited on the Stanhopes. I was rarely included in this arrangement, but there were a few times, years ago, when I dined with the Stanhopes in the great house, and Ethel, George, and a few of the other remaining servants would cook and serve a formal dinner to the Stanhope clan and their stuffed-shirt guests. In fact, I remembered now at least one occasion when Elizabeth, home from boarding school or college, cleared the table. I wondered if Lord William the Cheap paid her. Anyway, yes, Elizabeth was being funny, and this was a parody, but it made me a little uncomfortable.

Elizabeth spooned some jelly on my muffin and said, “We make this here on the estate.”

I didn’t come back with anything witty.

She placed some cheese on my plate and said, “This has been aged on the coffee table for twelve hours.”

I smiled.

So we had breakfast, made some small talk about her clothing boutiques, and about the changes that had taken place on the Gold Coast in the last decade. She commented on that subject, “It’s more subtle than dramatic. And not as bad as it could be. The nouveaux riches seem happy enough with their five acres and their semi-custom-built tract mansions.” She smiled and said, “Some of the women even dress well.”

I smiled in return.

She continued, “Well, listen to me – the daughter of estate workers. But, you know… I was brought up around the gentry, and I had a very good education, and I feel like part of the old, vanished world.”

“You are.”

“Yes, but I’m from the other part of that world, and now I’m a shopkeeper.”

“Shop owner.”

“Thank you, sir. In fact, three successful shops. And I did marry well. I mean, socially. Next time, I’ll marry for love.”

“Don’t do anything silly.”

She smiled, then said, “Well, at least my children are Corbets, and they’ve been well educated.”

I said to her, “You know, I lived in England for seven years, and I saw the best and worst of the old class system. In the end, what matters is character.”

“That, Mr. Sutter, sounds like bullshit.”

I smiled. “Well, it is. But it sounds good.”

“And easy for you to say.”

“I wasn’t born rich,” I said.

“But you were born into two illustrious old families. Whitmans and Sutters. All or most of whom were college educated, and none of whom were gatekeepers, shopkeepers, or servants.”

That was true, but as far as I knew, none of them had been filthy rich like the Stanhopes. Great Uncle Walt was famous, but poetry didn’t pay that well.

As for the Sutters, they’d come over on the ship after the Mayflower, and they’d been missing the boat ever since, at least in regard to money.

Regarding the Stanhopes, Susan’s great-great-grandfather, Cyrus, had made the family fortune in coal mines and built Stanhope Hall at the turn of the last century. The Whitmans and Sutters, however, would consider the Stanhopes to be ostentatious, mercenary, and perhaps not very intellectual. And as my mother liked to point out, the Stanhopes were totally devoid of social conscience.

Balzac said, “Behind every great fortune is a crime.” But in the case of the Stanhopes, what was behind their fortune was dumb luck. And they’d kept most of it through greed, stinginess, and tax loopholes. And on that subject, although I did a lot of free legal work for cheap Willie, I never did tax work for him, or I’d probably be in jail now.

Nevertheless, in Elizabeth’s eyes, we were all lumped together, and we’d all been highborn and blessed by fate and fortune.

To try to set the record straight, I informed her, “I happen to know that my distant ancestors were farmers and fishermen, and one of them, Elijah Sutter, was hanged for horse stealing.”

“I won’t tell.”

I further informed her, “By the way, I’m broke.”

She said, “Well, it’s been nice knowing you.”

I smiled, then suggested, “Can we change the subject?”

“Good idea. But let me just say, John, that I think you’d still be happy here if you stayed.”

“I can be happy anywhere where there’s a country club, a polo field, a yacht club, and two-hundred-acre zoning.”

She smiled and observed, “You can take the boy out of the Gold Coast, but you can’t take the Gold Coast out of the boy.”

“Well said.” I tried a piece of Gouda. “Tastes better this morning.”

She said to me, “Tell me about your sail around the world.”

“There’s a lot to tell.”

“Did you have a woman in every port?”

“No. Only in Western Europe, Southeast Asia, the Caribbean, and French Polynesia.”

“Very funny. Well, tell me another time.”

“How about you?”

“Me? Well… I’ve been dating for the last two years.” She added, “Nothing serious, and I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

Dating. Seeing. Women, I’ve discovered, have more euphemisms for fucking than Eskimos have words for snow. And they rarely use a masculine noun or pronoun when describing their love life. I’m dating someone, I’m seeing someone, I’ve met someone, I’m involved with someone, I’m serious about someone, I’m not serious about the person I’m seeing, and I date other people, and on and on. Whereas a guy will just ask another guy, “You fuckin’ anybody?”

Elizabeth interrupted my mental riff and asked, “Are we supposed to have this conversation before or after sex?”

“Before is good. So there aren’t any misunderstandings.” I added, “I’m… seeing someone in London.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, then asked, “Is it serious?”

Serious to me usually describes a medical condition, like a brain tumor, but I think I know what serious means in this context, so I answered, honestly, “She thinks so. I do not.”

“All right.”

So we left it there.

To be truthful, this breakfast conversation was not going as well as I thought it would, and just as I was starting to have second thoughts about Elizabeth, she displayed the astuteness that I’d noticed before and said, “By now, you are subtracting points. First, I raise the class issue, and you think I’ve inherited the Red gene from my mother, then I pry into your love life, and we haven’t even had sex, and… what else?”

“Breakfast sucks.”

“That’s your fault, not mine.”

“True. Look-”

“Do you know how to shop for food?”

“Of course I do. I’ve provisioned my ship from native food stalls all over the world.”

“What did you do in London?”

“In London, I called Curry in a Hurry. Or ate out.”

“I’ll do some food shopping for you.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“That would be nice.” She stayed silent awhile, then said to me, “I think Susan wants you back.”

I didn’t reply.

Elizabeth pushed on. “I think she wanted me to tell you that. So, I’m telling you.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like my opinion on that?”

“No. I have my own opinion.”

“All right.” She stood and said, “I’m going home, then to church, then to visit Mom. Church is at eleven, if you’d like to meet me there. Or you can meet me at Fair Haven. And if you’re not busy this afternoon, I’ll buy you brunch.”

I stood and said, “I’d like to spend the day with you, but… I don’t want to run into Susan at church, or at Fair Haven.”

“I understand.”

As for the brunch invitation, I surprised myself by saying, “I have a Sunday dinner date at four.” I thought I owed Elizabeth an explanation and I said, “The same business guy I had dinner with last week, and his family.”

“All right… I hope it works out.”

“Can I meet you at about seven?”

“Call me.”

“I will.” I smiled and asked, “Can I help you get dressed?”

She smiled in return and said, “You didn’t even help me get undressed.” She said, “I want you to stay right here and not tempt me now. I’ll let myself out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” We embraced and kissed, and one thing led to another, and somehow her robe got undone, and we were about two seconds from doing it on the table, but she backed off, took a breath, and said, “Later. Tonight.”

“Okay… tonight.”

She tied her robe, turned and walked toward the door, then looked back at me and said, “You need to resolve things with Susan, sooner rather than later.”

“I know that.”

She went through the screen door, and I stood there, wanting to follow, but knowing I shouldn’t.

I poured another cup of coffee and took a walk through Ethel’s garden, which was overgrown with weeds that were choking out the vegetables. Why don’t vegetables choke out weeds?

Anyway, I did some mental weeding. First, I liked Elizabeth Allard. Second, I had to take charge of events before they took charge of me. And that meant seeing Susan – not tomorrow, or the next day, but this morning. Then the visit to the Bellarosa house would have some purpose, and some resolution.

And then, tonight, I could sleep with Elizabeth – or sleep alone, but very soundly for the first time in two weeks.