The Gate House

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A vintage radio sat atop the refrigerator, and Patti Page was singing “Old Cape Cod,” which reminded me of a few sails I’d made there with my family. The station was playing a medley of American geography-inspired songs, and the next one was “Moonlight in Vermont.” I was sure that Ethel hadn’t moved that dial in two decades.

Time had stood still here in this gatehouse as the changing world encroached on the walls of Stanhope Hall. In fact, life within the walls had changed, too, and time was about to catch up to this place, and to the people who lived here, past and present.

It was not yet 9:00 A.M., and I’d already showered and changed into tan trousers and my last clean button-down shirt. A Savile Row custom-made blue blazer hung over the back of the kitchen chair. I was dressed to call on Susan, or I was all dressed up with no place to go until dinner with the Mafia at four.

But maybe before I phoned Susan, I should first make my Sunday call to Carolyn and Edward. Carolyn, however, slept late on Sunday, and it was 6:00 A.M. in Los Angeles, so maybe I should call my mother, but I usually have a stiff drink in my hand when I speak to Harriet, and it was a bit early for that.

At quarter past nine, Ray Charles was singing “Georgia,” and I was still standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hand.

It was odd, I thought, that I could tell a Mafia don to basically go fuck himself, but I couldn’t get up the courage to make the phone call to Susan.

The last mournful notes of “Georgia” died away, and the mellow-voiced DJ said, “That was beautiful. You’re listening to WLIG, broadcasting to the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Well, on that inspirational note, I shut off the radio, picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed the guest cottage number that Carolyn had given me. I listened to the phone ring three times and hoped for the answering machine.

Susan must have Caller ID, which showed Ethel’s phone number, because she answered, “Hello, John.”

I felt my heart give a thump at the sound of her voice saying my name, and I almost hung up, but obviously I couldn’t – though maybe I could imitate Ethel’s high-pitched voice and say, “Hello, Mrs. Sutter, I just wanted you to know I’m back from hospice, goodbye,” then hang up.

“John?”

“Hello, Susan.”

Silence.

I inquired, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Fine. Good. How are you doing?”

“Still fine.”

“Right… me, too.”

She observed, “You didn’t rehearse this call very well.”

I was a little annoyed at that and said, “I just thought about calling you, and I didn’t have time to make notes.”

“And to what do I owe the great pleasure of this phone call?”

My goodness. I hadn’t expected her to be overjoyed or emotional to hear my voice, but she was distinctly frigid. I had to remind myself that Ethel and Elizabeth had indicated that Susan would welcome a call from me. And Mr. Nasim said that Susan spoke well of me. Even Edward and Carolyn had hinted that Mom wanted to hear from me. So what was this all about?

And the answer was, Susan asking me, “Has your houseguest left already?”

Ah. Before I could reply, she further inquired, “That was Elizabeth Allard’s car there overnight, was it not?”

“Yes, it was. But…” I didn’t fuck her. Honest.

“And how is Elizabeth?”

I really didn’t owe Susan any explanation, but to set the record straight, I thought I should say something – but this had caught me off guard, and I blurted, “She had too much to drink, and she wanted to see her old room, and we had a lot of estate work to do, and I’m the attorney, so she just stayed over, and-”

Before I became even more unintelligible, Susan interrupted and said, “Well, I don’t care. So, what can I do for you?”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Silence, then, “I really don’t care, John.” She informed me, “I need to get ready for church.”

Well, having taken the initiative by making this call, I wasn’t going to be blown off that easily, so I said, “I’m coming by now with an envelope for you. I’ll ring the bell. If you don’t answer, I’ll leave the envelope at the door.”

Silence.

I said, “Goodbye,” and hung up.

I put on my blazer, grabbed the manila envelope from the dining room table, and went out the door.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, birds sang, locusts chirped, bees buzzed, and my heart was pounding as I walked up the main drive toward the guest cottage.

I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so tense. I mean, if anyone should be feeling tense or awkward – or guilty – it should be Susan. It wasn’t me who had an affair, then shot my lover.

By the time I covered the three hundred yards to the guest cottage, I was in better control of myself.

As I approached the house, I noticed that the previous owners, to whom Susan had sold the house, had marked the boundaries of their property by planting lines of hedgerows around the ten-acre enclave. When William and Charlotte still lived in the mansion, I’d suggested to Susan that we erect a twenty-foot stone wall with guard towers to cut down on her parents’ unannounced visits, but Susan didn’t want to block her views, so now I wondered if she was going to have these hedges ripped out. I was certain that Amir Nasim was concerned about these thick growths providing cover and concealment for Iranian snipers.

But back to more immediate concerns. I half wanted Susan not to answer the door; then I could get on with my life with no further thought about Susan Stanhope Sutter. On the other hand, I did feel obligated to pass on Nasim’s concerns as well as my concerns about Anthony Bellarosa. Of course, all this could be done in a phone call or a letter, and if she didn’t answer the door, that’s what I’d do.

The other half of me, to be honest, wanted her to open the door and invite me in. If nothing else, I needed to explain Elizabeth’s sleep-over – not because it mattered to me, but it might matter to Elizabeth, so I wanted to clear up that misunderstanding so Susan and I could get on to other misunderstandings.

I walked up the slate path to the large stone guest cottage, and noticed that the ivy hadn’t been cut and was climbing over the windowsills. Also, the gravel driveway and the forecourt in front of the house were in need of maintenance. These used to be my jobs, to do or to hire out. I did notice that the flowerbeds, Susan’s area of responsibility, were picture-perfect. Why was I noticing this?

I stepped up to the front door, and without hesitation, I rang the bell.

I had time for one quick thought before the door opened, or before I left, so I thought back to Susan and Frank screwing their brains out all summer while I was off breaking my butt in the city, while also trying to fight an IRS income tax evasion charge, and in my spare time trying to defend my wife’s boyfriend on a murder charge. All of those happy memories put me in the right frame of mind.

I waited about ten seconds, then put the envelope against the door, turned, and walked away.

About five seconds later, I heard the door open, and Susan’s voice called, “Thank you.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing at the door holding the envelope, dressed in jeans and a pink polo shirt. I said, “You’re welcome,” and kept walking.

“John.”

I stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

“Would you like to come in for a minute? I have something for you.”

I glanced at my watch, then with a show of great reluctance, I said, “Well… all right.”

I walked back to the house, and she disappeared inside, leaving the door open. I entered and shut the door.

She was standing at the far end of the large foyer, near the kitchen, and she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and I followed. The house, from what I could see, looked very much like it did ten years before, furnished mostly with Stanhope family antiques, which I called junk and which she must have taken with her to Hilton Head or put into storage.

The big country kitchen, too, looked very much the same, including the old regulator clock on the wall, and I had that Twilight Zone feeling that I’d just left to get the Sunday newspapers and returned to discover that I’d been divorced for ten years.

Susan, standing with her back to me at the coffee pot, asked, “Still black?”

“Yes.”

She poured coffee into two mugs, turned, and I met her halfway. She handed me the mug, and we looked at each other. She really hadn’t aged, as I’d noticed when I’d seen her from a distance a few days ago, and she hadn’t gained an ounce of weight in ten years, but neither had I. So with obviously the same thoughts in our minds, we said, simultaneously, “You’re looking-” We both smiled involuntarily, then said, “ – well.”

The pleasantries over, I said to her, “I need to speak to you.”

She replied, “If you’ve come here because you’re feeling guilty-”

“I’m not guilty of anything.”

“You can sleep with whomever you wish, but try to stay away from my friends, please.”

“Well, then, give me a list of your friends.”

“And you do the same, if you have any.”

Bitch. I put my coffee mug on the table and said, “Before I go, you need to understand that I did not have sex with Elizabeth Allard.”

“I don’t care if you did or didn’t.”

“But you just said-”

“Are you playing lawyer with me?”

Some things never change. Susan is very bright, but no one has ever accused her of being logical or rational. I mean, she can be, but when she’s stressed, she takes refuge in the nutty part of her brain. It’s the red hair. I said, “Look me in the eye.”

“Which one?”

“Look at me.”

She looked at me, and I said, “I did not have sex with Elizabeth.”

She kept staring at me, and we held eye contact. I suggested, “Speak to Elizabeth.”

She nodded, then said, “All right. I believe you.”

So we stood there, and the regulator clock on the wall ticked away, as it did many times when Susan and I passed these deadly silent minutes in the kitchen after a fight. Those fights were usually cathartic, a good sign that we still cared enough to go a few rounds, and more often than not, we kissed and made up, then sprinted upstairs into the bedroom. I was sure she was remembering that, too, but we were not going to the bedroom this time. In fact, I said, “I can come back another time.”

She asked me, “What’s in the envelope?”

I replied, “Some photos, and some papers that you should have, such as Carolyn and Edward’s birth records, which wound up in my storage.”

She nodded, then said to me, “If you have a few minutes, I need to discuss some things with you, and I have a few things to give you.”

“All right.”

She suggested, “Why don’t we sit in the rose garden?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right out.”

I took my coffee and went out the rear kitchen door into the English rose garden, which was surrounded by a low stone wall, and looked basically the same as I remembered it, except that the cast-iron furniture had been replaced with wicker, which looked not much more comfortable. Women can sit on anything.

The roses were starting to bloom, and I couldn’t remember if this was early or late for the blooms – it depended, I guess, on what kind of spring there had been here on Long Island.

So here I was, home but not home. It all looked familiar, but the slight changes were disorienting. Same with the people. I’d feel more comfortable in a native hut on a Pacific island, where nothing reminded me of my past life.

I recalled something my father had said to me when I was in the Army and about to begin an assignment in Germany. He’d said of his four years away at war, “When I returned, I felt so out of place that I wished I was back with my buddies in a foxhole.” Considering that he’d later met and married my mother, I was sure that was a recurring wish. More to the point, I now understood what he meant.

Anyway, I sat in a chair at a round wicker table and watched the fountain bubbling in the rear of the neat, symmetrical garden with the sundial in the center.

There were a few garden statues scattered around the rose beds, mostly classical figures, and this reminded me of Alhambra’s classical gardens, the reflecting pool, and, of course, my dream. Probably I would never ask her how, when, and where she’d begun her affair with Frank Bellarosa, but if I did ask how it happened, she’d say, “How did what happen? Oh, that. That was so long ago, John. Why are you bringing that up?” And so forth. She’s an accomplished amnesiac, and I was certain that she had no more memory of screwing Frank Bellarosa than she had of shooting him. Well, of course she remembered, but only if someone like me was uncouth enough to mention it.

I recalled the last time I saw her, which was about four years ago at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral. I don’t know why she was there, but because of our children, she was still part of the family in some way. She’d left her new husband back in Hilton Head, so I didn’t have a chance to meet the lucky man, or the opportunity to comment on how old he looked, or how fat he was, or whatever. If she’d married a young stud, you can be sure he’d have been there in a black Armani suit.

Anyway, Susan and I had spoken then, but it had been mostly small talk about Aunt Cornelia, and Cornelia’s deceased husband, Arthur, and their two brainless sons. We spoke, too, about my father, whom Susan had been fond of, but she didn’t mention his funeral that I had missed. I recalled congratulating Susan on her marriage, and I wished her happiness. I think I even meant it.

She’d told me that her husband was a very good man, meaning, I think, that he was not the love of her life.

She hadn’t asked me anything personal, and I didn’t offer any news on my love life.

Also not on the agenda were the last words we’d spoken to each other before we parted, six years before. I had attended her hearing in Federal court in Manhattan to offer testimony as a witness in the death of Frank Bellarosa. As her husband and onetime lawyer, I didn’t have to take the stand, but I wanted to offer some extenuating and mitigating circumstances on her behalf, mostly having to do with her state of mind on the night of the murder, such as, “Your Honor, my wife is nuts. Look at that red hair.” Also I informed the court that I wanted to speak for the record about the FBI pimping my wife for the Mafia don while he was in their protective custody in his mansion, and I definitely wanted to say a few words about the questionable actions of the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo.

Well, as it turned out, the judge and Mr. Ferragamo didn’t want to hear any of that from me, and the closed-door session had ended with the Justice Department concluding that this case would not be presented to a grand jury. A total victory for Susan, and a reaffirmation of the government’s right to cover its ass. As for me, this was the only time I’d ever influenced the outcome of a case by sitting in the hallway with my mouth shut.

I was relieved that Susan had walked, of course, but to be honest, I was also a little disappointed – as a lawyer and as a citizen – that the Justice Department had let her off so easily, without even a slap on the wrist. And as a betrayed husband, I’d wished that Susan had at least been ordered to wear a scarlet A on her prim dress, but then, by extension, I guess I’d be wearing a sign that said cuckold.

Anyway, after the hearing, I had made a point of running into her on the steps of the courthouse in Foley Square, and she’d been surrounded by her happy parents, three relieved lawyers, and two family-retained psychiatrists, which were barely enough for any member of the Stanhope family.

I’d gotten Susan separated from her retinue, and we’d spoken briefly, and I congratulated her on the outcome of the hearing, though I was not entirely happy with that outcome. Nevertheless, I said to her, “I still love you, you know.”

And she’d replied, “You’d better. Forever.”

And my last words to her were, “Yes, forever.”

And her last words to me were, “Me, too.”

So we parted there on the courthouse steps and didn’t see each other for almost four years, when Edward graduated from Sarah Lawrence.

And the last time we’d spoken, at Cornelia’s funeral, the final thing she’d said to me was, “I’ll wish you happiness, John, but before that, I wish you peace.”

I didn’t know why she’d thought I wasn’t at peace – that was my secret – but I replied, “Thank you. Same to you.”

We had parted at the cemetery, and I’d returned to London. Now, four years later, we were about to bury another lady from our past, and if I were in a joking mood I’d say to her, “We have to stop meeting like this.” But maybe, I thought, one or both of our children would finally decide to get married, and Susan and I would meet on happier occasions, such as births and christenings and grandchildren’s birthdays.

Until then, it was funerals, which reminded me of a line from Longfellow – Let the dead Past bury its dead.

Yes, indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Susan came out to the rose garden, and I was observant enough to notice she’d run a brush through her hair, and maybe tweaked the lip gloss.

Gentleman that I am, I stood, and she, recalling a running joke between us, asked me, “Is someone playing the national anthem?”

We both smiled, and she set a stationery box on the table as well as the envelope I’d brought, then she sat opposite me.

As for the envelope, I didn’t want her opening it now and seeing the nude photos of herself; that might be awkward, or embarrassing, or it might send the wrong message. Or did she already look in the envelope? In any case, she left it on the table.

We both sat in silence for a few seconds, then I remembered to say, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

“Thank you.”

That seemed to cover the subject, so I asked the grieving widow, “What did you need to speak to me about?”

“You go first.”

“Ladies first.”

“All right. Well, I have this box for you that contains copies of some photos I thought you’d like to have. Also, I’ve found a stack of letters to us from Edward and Carolyn when they were at school, and I’ve made photocopies for you.”

“Thank you. Do you also have the canceled checks we sent them?”

She smiled and replied, “No, but I do have the thank-you notes.” She observed, “Now they e-mail, but they used to know how to write longhand.”

We both smiled.

She asked me, “What’s in that envelope?”

“Same thing. Photos, a few letters from the children. Some documents that you may want to keep.”

“Thank you.” She then informed me, “Edward and Carolyn both told me they’d be here for Ethel’s funeral.” She added, “Edward needs some lead time. He’s very busy at work. So is Carolyn, but she can get here quickly from Brooklyn.”

I remarked, “I always wanted to live long enough to see my children juggling work and family responsibilities. I can’t wait for them to get married and have kids.”

“John, you make work, family, marriage, and children sound like a punishment for something.”

“Sorry. That came out wrong. Anyway, you should keep them up to date on Ethel. I don’t have e-mail or a cell phone.”

“Do you plan to?”

“If I stay.”

She didn’t pursue that and asked me, “When was the last time you spoke to them?”

“Last Sunday. They sounded well.”

“I think they are.” She told me, “They’re happy you’re back.” She took the opportunity to inquire, “How long are you staying?”

“At least until the funeral.”

She nodded, but did not ask a follow-up question. The subject was family, so she advised me, “You should see your mother – before the funeral.”

“Do you mean hers or Ethel’s?”

“Please be serious. You should act toward your mother the way you’d want your children to act toward you. You need to set an example for them. She is their grandmother. You are her son.”

“I think I get it.”

“You need to be more of an adult.”

“I am my mother’s son, and I act as I’m treated.”

“Ridiculous.” She continued on her subject and said, “Your estrangement from your mother affects our children. I’m thinking of them.”

It’s always the children, of course, but they rarely give a damn. In any case, this was not about Harriet and me, or the children and me; it was about Susan and me.

She continued on to Point B and said, “Edward and Carolyn are also uncomfortable with your attitude toward my parents.” She reminded me, in case I missed the connection, “They are the children’s grandparents.”

“How long do you think this lecture is going to last?”

“This is not a lecture. These are important issues that need to be addressed for the sake of our children.”

I wanted to say, “They are not children any longer, and you should have thought about them ten years ago when you decided to fuck Frank Bellarosa.” Instead, I said, “All right, to the extent that I have any involvement in the lives of anyone here, I’ll try to be a better son, a better father, and a better ex-husband.”

“And hopefully, less sarcastic.”

“And for the record, I have never said anything unkind about your parents to Edward or Carolyn.”

“Maybe not… but they sense the hostility.”

“They’re very perceptive.” I added, “I don’t even think about your parents.”

She took the opportunity to give me some good news. “They’ve gotten a lot more mellow over the years.”

The only way those two would be mellow is if they had brain transplants. I said, “Then maybe it was me who brought out the worst in them.”

She ignored that and got to the conclusion of this lecture, saying, “What happened between us has impacted a lot of people around us whom we care for and who care for us, so I think we should try to be civil to each other and make life easier and less awkward for everyone.”

“It may be a little late for that.”

“No, it is not.”

I didn’t respond.

She asked me, “When are you going to let it go?”

“I’ve done that.”

“No, you have not.”

“And you have?”

“I was never angry with you, John.”

“Right. Why should you be? What did I do?”

“You should think about your role in what happened.”

“Please.”

“Then think about what you’ve done for the last ten years.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That is the point. You just ran off.”

I didn’t reply, but I glanced at my watch, and she saw this and said, “You are not leaving until I finish what I have to say.”

“Then finish.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, in a softer voice, “John, we can’t undo what happened-”

“Try that again, with a singular pronoun.”

She took a deep breath and said, “Okay… I can’t undo what happened… what I did. But I would like… I would like you to forgive me.”

I didn’t see that coming, and I was momentarily speechless. I thought about what to say, and I almost said, “I forgive you,” but instead I looked at her and reminded her, “You never even apologized. You never said you were sorry.”

She held eye contact with me, then said, “John… what I did was too great a sin to apologize for. What do I say? I’m sorry I ruined all our lives? I’m sorry I had an affair? I’m sorry I killed him? I’m sorry I didn’t go to jail to pay for what I did? I’m sorry about his wife and children? I’m sorry that it was my fault that our children have suffered, and my fault that they haven’t had you around for ten years? I’m sorry it was my fault you weren’t here when your father died? How do I apologize for all that?”

I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t look at her any longer, so I turned away, and I heard her say, “Excuse me.”

I looked back at her, but she’d stood and was walking quickly back into the house.

I sat there for a minute, feeling pretty miserable, but also feeling that this was finally coming to some sort of end.

There was a gate in the garden wall, and I looked at it, picturing myself walking through it. I could call her later, when we’d both calmed down. Or did she want me to wait here? Or follow her inside?

Women are always hard to figure out, and when they’re upset, I don’t even try. The best thing for me to do right now was to do what I wanted to do, and I wanted to leave. So I stood, took the box she’d given me, and walked toward the gate. But then I hesitated and looked back toward the house, but there was no sign of her. Apparently, the conversation was over. And that was okay, too.

I opened the gate, then I weakened again, and thought of her coming out and finding me gone. I was really torn, and my tougher side was saying, “Leave,” and my softer side was saying, “She’s hurting.”

Sometimes, in moments like this, I ask for divine intervention, so I did that, but the kitchen door stayed closed. “Come on, God.”

Pride goeth before a fall.

“Thanks for the tip.”

Say it with flowers.

“What…?” Then I suddenly recalled being here before, literally and figuratively, and I remembered how we sometimes made a peace offering without too much loss of pride.

I went back into the garden and found her rose clippers on a potting bench, and cut a dozen red roses, and put them on the round table, then I walked toward the gate and opened it.

“John.”

I turned and saw her at the door. She called out, “Are you leaving?”

“I… I was…”

“How can you just-?” She saw the cut roses and walked to the table. She picked up a stem and looked at it, then looked at me. We stared at each other across the garden, then I walked slowly back toward the house.

She watched me as I approached, and I stopped at that well-defined midpoint where sparring spouses and exes are neither too close nor too far, but just right for comfort.

She asked me, “Why were you leaving?”

“I thought you wanted me to leave.” I reminded her, “You got up and left.”

“I said, ‘Excuse me,’ not goodbye.”

“Right. Well, I wasn’t sure… actually, to be truthful, I wanted to leave.”

“Why?”

“This is painful.”

She nodded.

So we stood there, neither of us knowing what to say next. She’d asked me to forgive her, and after ten years, I should just say, “I forgive you,” and move on. But if I said it, I’d have to mean it, and if I didn’t mean it, she’d know it.

Susan and I had both grown up in a world and a social class where things like sin, acts of redemption and contrition, and absolution were drummed into us in church, at St. Paul’s, at Friends Academy, and even at home. That world may have vanished, and we may both have strayed so far off course that we’d never see land again, but we were still middle-aged products of that world. So, knowing she’d understand what I meant, I said to her, “Susan, I can and do accept your apology for everything. I really do. But it isn’t in my heart, or my power, to forgive you.”

She nodded, and said, “I understand. Just don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You did.”

“I never did. I told you… on the courthouse steps… remember?”

“I do.” She reminded me, “You told your sister you were going to sail to Hilton Head. I waited for you.”

This was getting painful again, but it needed to be painful before it finally stopped hurting. I said, “I did sail there… but I turned around.”

“And sailed off to see the world.”

“That’s right.”

“You could have been lost at sea.”

“That wasn’t my plan, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“Subject closed,” I said.

“Everyone was worried. Your parents, your children-”

“That wasn’t part of the plan, either. It was just an exquisite act of irresponsibility and self-indulgence. Nothing more.” I added, “I deserved it.” I reminded her, “Subject closed.”

“All right.” She picked a lighter subject and said, “Thank you for the flowers.”

“They’re actually your flowers,” I pointed out.

“I know that. But thank you for the gesture.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m touched that you remembered.”

I was still bothered by her suggestion that I’d sailed off around the world because I was a distraught, self-pitying, heartbroken, sympathy-seeking, suicidal wreck of a man. Women just don’t understand irresponsible behavior, so I returned to the closed subject and said, “It was also a challenge.”

“What was?”

“Sailing around the world in a small boat.”

“Oh… I thought you said the subject-”

“Men enjoy the thrill of danger.”

“Well… I don’t think the people waiting at home enjoy it, but you did it, and I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system.”

“Maybe.” On that note, I decided to quit while we were still speaking, so I said, “I don’t want to make you late for church. So, why don’t we meet tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for meeting people at church.”

I didn’t think the purpose of church was meeting people, and I don’t know what sort of mood you needed to be in to meet them there, but I said, “You may feel better if you go to church.”

She ignored that and asked, “Why don’t we take a walk?”

I thought about that, then said, “All right…”

I took off my blazer and hung it on the chair, then we headed out through the garden gate. Susan carried along a rose stem.

It was just like old times, except it wasn’t. And it never would be again. We were not going to get back together, but this time when we said goodbye, we could also say, “Stay in touch.” There would be more funerals and weddings, births and birthdays, and there would be new people in our lives, and that would be all right, and we could be in the same room together, and actually smile; our friends and family would like that.

That was as good as it was going to get, and after ten years, considering all that had happened and could have happened in our lives, it was a small miracle that we were here now, speaking, and taking a walk together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We walked across the rolling lawn toward the hedgerow in the distance.

Susan was barefoot, which was how she liked to walk around the property, and I wondered if Amir Nasim would approve of bare feet. But we were still on Susan’s property, so it was moot until we crossed into Iranian territory.

Susan made small talk about the property as we walked and said, “The Ganzes… they were the couple I sold the house to… Diane and Barry Ganz – did you meet them?”

“Briefly, after you left. They’d call about once a week to ask me questions about how things worked, or why things didn’t work.”

“Sorry.”

“I tried to help, but I reminded them that I did not sell them the house.”

She didn’t reply to that, then said, “That was an impulsive move. Selling the house. But I was… distraught. And my parents were urging me to join them in Hilton Head.”

With William and Charlotte, urging meant pressuring, and I wondered if Susan had figured out the difference in the last ten years.

Also, her selling the house and moving basically killed any chance that we would reconcile, which was one reason the Stanhopes wanted her to move.

Plus, of course, Susan had whacked a Mafia don, and it’s always best to leave the neighborhood when you do something like that.

Susan, however, had another explanation for me and continued, “The government had taken over Stanhope Hall from… well, you know that. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be surrounded by a subdivision, as was happening… next door… so I sold the house.”

I didn’t reply, but I noted that she avoided uttering the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. Maybe she couldn’t recall her lover’s name, or where he’d lived. Or, more likely, Susan thought, correctly, that I did not want to hear the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. But that was not the last minefield we would encounter on this walk, so to show I couldn’t be wounded anymore, I said, “I saw the houses at Alhambra,” and in a poor choice of words, I added, “Frank Bellarosa must be rolling over in his grave.” I further added, “Sorry.”

Susan stayed silent awhile, then returned to the Ganzes and said, “They took good care of the property, but they planted these hedgerows for privacy, and they block my views. But now that Stanhope Hall is occupied, they do give me some privacy. So I don’t know if I should take them out. What do you think?”

“Live with them for a year, then decide.”

“Good idea.” She informed me, “I sunbathe on the lawn, and that could be an issue with the new owner.”

“I know that.”

“Oh, have you met him?”

“I have.”

“And? What did he say?” she asked.

“Dress modestly.”

“Yes, I know. What else did you talk about?”

“Well, I have arranged with him for me to stay in the gatehouse after Ethel passes on.”

“Did you? For how long?”

“No later than September first. If I stay here that long. Then he wants his property back.” I added, “Nasim wants to put… someone of his choosing into the gatehouse.” I asked her, “Did he tell you that?”

“No. We never spoke of that.” She informed me, “He wanted to buy the guest cottage from me. Did he mention that to you?”

“He did.”

We continued our walk across the sun-dappled lawn, and she said to me, “He made me a very generous offer for the cottage and the land.” She added, “He seemed upset when I turned him down.”

I didn’t reply, and neither did I make a pitch for her to accept the offer. Also, I decided not to bring up the subject of Amir Nasim’s security concerns at this time; that needed to be discussed along with my concerns about Anthony Bellarosa, and I wanted to save that for last.

Susan, of course, had changed, as we all had in ten years, but I know this woman, and I was fairly certain she would think that Amir Nasim’s concerns were silly or paranoid, or at worst, real, but of no concern to her. As for Mr. Anthony Bellarosa’s possible vendetta… well, she’d understand that on one level, but dismiss it on another. Susan was raised in an incredibly sheltered and privileged environment, and I was sure that hadn’t changed much in Hilton Head. I used to think of her as having the Marie Antoinette Syndrome – not so much the “let them eat cake” mentality, but rather the mentality of not comprehending why anyone would want to cut off her head, not to mention the good manners to apologize to her executioner when she stepped on his foot near the guillotine.

Well, maybe she had changed over the years, but I wasn’t seeing much of it. I did notice, however, that she seemed less nutty. Or maybe she was saving that as a special treat for later, after we got comfortable with each other.

I asked her, “Why did you come back?”

She replied, “I was homesick.” She asked me, “Were you homesick?”

I thought about that, then replied, “Home isn’t a place.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s… people. Family, friends… memories… that sort of thing.”

“Well? And didn’t you miss that?”

“I did at first. But… time heals, and memories fade.” I added, “Home can also be suffocating. I needed a change.”

“I did, too, but I felt drawn back here.” She added, “I didn’t want to die in Hilton Head.”

“No, that would be redundant.”

She almost laughed, then said, “It’s a nice place. I think you’d like it there.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever find out.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I kept my place there… so, if you ever want to use it, you’re welcome.”

“Well… thank you.”

“It’s near the beach, and near two golf courses. Very relaxing.”

“Sounds… relaxing.” So, we’d gone from barely speaking to her offering me her house at the beach to relax. She was trying, and I was not. Maybe, I thought, as Nasim suggested, she was on a major nostalgia trip, which is why she’d moved back here, and somehow I was included in her happy memories of the past. In any case, my life was in flux, or limbo, or whatever, and hers was settling back into a past that no longer existed and could not be resurrected.

She returned to the subject of her place in Hilton Head and said, “I had it completely refurnished, and moved all my things back here.”

“I noticed.” I then asked her, “So, are you happy being back?”

“I am. You know, sometimes you just feel it in your heart when you’ve made the right move.”

“Good.” I couldn’t resist getting in a zinger and said, “I’m sure your parents miss you, but are happy for you.”

She glanced at me, knowing from long experience that everything I said about her parents was either ironic or a double entendre, or just plain nasty. She informed me, “To be honest, I needed to spend less time with them.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

She ignored that and went on, “After Dan died… I realized that I had no reason to stay there… I mean, Carolyn is here, Edward comes to New York more often than he comes to Hilton Head, and I still have family and friends here.”

And one enemy on the adjoining property. I could see now that Susan could not be persuaded to leave here because of Anthony Bellarosa’s proximity. The best I could hope for was to make her acknowledge the problem and the situation she’d gotten herself into. And if I was working for Anthony Bellarosa, that might keep him from his vendetta. But in the end, it didn’t really matter if I was working for don Bellarosa or not, and it didn’t matter where Susan lived. Anthony Bellarosa smelled blood, and when the time came, he’d follow that blood scent to the ends of the earth.

A few days ago, protecting Susan had been an abstract thought; now, with her walking beside me, it became real.

The obvious thing to do was to notify the local police, and also the FBI. If the law got on Anthony’s case regarding Susan Sutter, and told him to not even think about settling the score, then that should be all that was necessary to protect Susan.

On the other hand, Susan had murdered Anthony’s father, and gotten away with it, and I didn’t think that Anthony Bellarosa was going to let that stand. Well… his father wouldn’t be swayed from his ancient duty to avenge the murder of a family member, but maybe Anthony was not made of the same stuff as his father. Quite possibly, I hoped, Anthony valued his freedom more than he valued the concept of family honor and vendetta. I simply didn’t have the answer to that question, and I didn’t want to guess wrong, or test either assumption. This was a big problem, and it trumped all my smaller problems.

Susan asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh… about… what were we talking about?”

“My parents. And that usually puts you in a dark mood.”

“Not at all. And how are they?”

“Fine.”

“You must miss them.”

Silence, then, “To tell you the truth, they drive me a little nuts.”

That was a short trip, but I reminded her, “You said they’ve become more mellow.”

“Well, they have, but… they like to look after me.”

“I remember that.” In fact, as I said, William and Charlotte Stanhope were control freaks and manipulators, and he was not only a skinflint, but also an unscrupulous snake. Charlotte, the other half of this dynamically dysfunctional duo, was a smiling backstabber and a two-faced troublemaker. Other than that, they were quite pleasant.

I had this thought that Susan was half trying to repackage Mom and Dad as kindly senior citizens – mellow and all that – who would no longer be a problem between us, if we somehow got back together. Well, the only way that William and Charlotte would cease to annoy me was if they were dead and buried. With that thought in mind, I asked, “How are they feeling? Any health issues?”

She thought about that question, then replied, “Not that I know of.” She added, “In fact, they’re coming in for Ethel’s funeral.”

I was afraid of that; I’d hoped they would take a pass on the funeral of an old servant, but as I said, there is this lingering sense of noblesse oblige among the old families, and William and Charlotte would stay true to that, even if it were inconvenient, not to mention the travel expenses. Maybe they’d hitchhike up. I asked, “Are they staying at The Creek?”

“They’ve dropped their membership.”

“I see. Well, club membership can be expensive.”

“They just don’t come up here much to use the club.”

“Right. And with airfare going sky high, pardon the pun-”

“It’s not the money, John. It’s… they have fewer reasons to come to New York.”

“Well, you’re here now. Carolyn has never left, and they have friends here who love them, so I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of them than you thought.” I was on a nice roll, and it felt good, so I continued, “And I wouldn’t want them to spend all that money for a hotel, so they’re welcome to use Ethel’s room at the gatehouse. I’d enjoy-”

“John. Stop it.”

“Sorry. I was just trying to-”

“You’re not the forgiving type, are you?”

“What was your first clue?”

She thought about that, then said, “If you won’t forgive, and you won’t forget, at least take some comfort in the fact that you’ve won.”

“Won? What did I win?”

“You won it all.”

“I thought I lost it all.”

“You did, but that’s how you won.”

“Sounds Zen.”

“You know what I’m talking about, so let’s drop it.”

“All right.”

She got back to the prior subject and announced, “My parents are staying with me.”

I was afraid of that, too. I really didn’t want them on the property; my offer to put them up wasn’t sincere.

Susan continued, “So are Edward and Carolyn. It will be nice to have them in their old rooms.”

I nodded.

She continued, “I’d like to invite you over for dinner or cocktails… whatever you’d like.”

I didn’t respond.

She said, “It would be less awkward, with you here on the property, if you didn’t feel you needed to avoid my parents… or me. The children would very much like that.”

“I know they would, Susan.”

“So?”

I thought about this family reunion, compliments of Ethel. I was looking forward to seeing my children, but I could do without my ex-in-laws. The other thing was… well, my public humiliation of being cuckolded by my beautiful wife; by divorcing her, and not speaking to her for ten years, I’d felt avenged, and my pride was intact. I was ready, in theory, as I said, to be in the same room with her, smiling and chatting. But the reality of being in the house of my unfaithful ex-wife, sitting around the table with our children and her parents… Susan, darling, could you pass the peas? William, can I pour you more wine? Well, I didn’t think I was ready for that.

“John?”

“Well… I don’t think your parents would want to sit with me-”

“I don’t care what they want. They can dine out if they don’t like it. I’m asking you if you’d like to have dinner at home with me, Edward, and Carolyn.”

“Yes. I would.”

“Good. They’ll be very happy when I tell them.”

“Can I bring a date?”

She looked at me, saw I was joking, and suppressed a smile, then gave me a playful punch on the arm and said, “Not funny.”

We continued to walk around her ten acres, and now and then she’d point out something the Ganzes had done, or something new that she’d done in the few months she’d been back, and she also remarked on how little the property had changed. She said, “The trees are bigger, and every one of them has survived, except for that copper beech that was over there. I’d replace it, but I had an estimate of about thirty thousand dollars.”

I wanted to suggest that her parents pay for it as a housewarming gift, and maybe I’d mention it to them if they came to dinner. Charlotte would choke to death on her martini olive, and William would drop dead of a heart attack. Total win-win.

Actually, this might be an opportunity for me to make amends with William by apologizing for calling him, quote, “an unprincipled ass-hole, an utterly cynical bastard, a monumental prick, and a conniving fuck.” I believe that was the last time we spoke. So maybe it was time for me to apologize for my profanity, rephrase the sentence in proper English, and ask him if he’d worked on those problems.

Susan reminded me, “This is where the children used to pitch their tents in the summer. Can you believe we let them sleep outdoors by themselves?”

“They usually had friends. And it’s very safe inside the walls.” Or it used to be.

Susan said, “My place in Hilton Head is a gated community.”

“Is it?” Of course it is.

“It’s hard to believe that Carolyn and Edward live in small apartments with no doorman on crowded city streets, and they love it.”

“They’re young and adventurous.”

“And not afraid. I’m glad we didn’t overprotect them, or spoil them.”

“Well, it’s a fine line between protecting and overprotecting, providing and spoiling.” Not to mention underprotecting and underparenting, which was my upbringing, but I’d rather have that than what Susan had.

Bottom line on this conversation was Susan reminding me that we’d done something right; we had been good parents, and that remained a source of pride, as well as a bond. Of course, we blew it at the end, but by the time we separated, Edward and Carolyn were on their way into the real world.

Susan said to me, “If I could turn back the clock, I would.”

That did sound like she regretted what she’d done, or, like most of us, me included, she regretted getting caught. The affair itself must’ve been emotionally stimulating and sexually pleasurable, not to mention deliciously taboo. I mean, she wasn’t screwing the tennis pro at the club; this was a Mafia don. So I didn’t know if she regretted the affair, or the consequences. That would depend on how far back she wanted to set that clock.

To be honest here, during the time that Susan and I had been estranged and sleeping in separate bedrooms, I’d become briefly involved with a TV news reporter named Jenny Alvarez, who was locally well-known at the time. I’d met her because she was covering the murder indictment against Frank Bellarosa, and I was, of course, the don’s attorney. I never regretted my involvement with Jenny Alvarez, probably because there were no unpleasant consequences, and of course, I felt justified because my wife was screwing my most famous client. Well, justified or not, I was playing with fire at a time when Susan and I didn’t need any more fire. I always felt I should have told Susan about this brief fling – as I called it, to distinguish it from her affair – but I wasn’t sure if my motives for confession would be the correct motives of truth, and honesty, and unburdening my soul. Or would I have been bragging, trying to hurt her, or trying to make her jealous? So, since I couldn’t decide, I’d kept it to myself.

But now maybe the time had come to tell Susan that she hadn’t been the only one committing adultery. I said to her, “Susan…”

“Yes?”

“Well… do you remember that TV reporter Jenny Alvarez, who was on, I believe, one of the network stations?”

“No… I don’t think so.”

I described Ms. Alvarez to her, but she couldn’t recall the lady, and inquired, “Why do you ask?”

“Well… I was just wondering if she was still on the air.”

“I don’t watch much television news.”

“Right. So, Nasim tells me that you and his wife… Soheila, right-?”

“Yes…”

“-have become friendly.”

“Well, I suppose… but…” She seemed confused and asked me, “Why were you asking about that TV reporter?”

I came to my senses and said, “I used to enjoy her reporting, and I can’t seem to find her on any of the stations.”

Susan shrugged and said, “There are dozens of new cable stations on the air since you’ve left.”

“Right. So, Edward seems happy working for a major film studio.”

Susan was happy to get back to the subject of her children and replied, “He likes what he does – the development office, whatever that is. And I’m surprised that he also likes Los Angeles.”

“Me, too. Where did we fail?”

She smiled and said, “But I think he misses the East Coast.”

“Maybe.”

“John, do you think he’ll stay there?”

“He might. You have to accept that.”

She nodded, then said, “Well… it’s only a six-hour flight.”

“Right.”

She reminisced, “I grew up with family close by… I thought that was normal.”

“Not anymore.”

Again, she nodded, then said, “At least Carolyn is close. But I haven’t seen much of her. She’s very busy.”

“Being an assistant district attorney is a lot of hours, and very stressful.”

“I know. She tells me.” Susan looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you proud that she followed in your footsteps?”

Carolyn was not exactly following in my footsteps; I had been a Wall Street attorney and I made a lot of money. Carolyn was working for peanuts, as many trust fund children do, and she was prosecuting criminals, which sort of surprised me because she once held an idealistic view of the rights of criminal defendants. But perhaps three years in the criminal justice system had opened her eyes a bit. Maybe someday she’d be on the prosecution team in the case of The State v. Anthony Bellarosa. I said, “I am proud of her.”

“Do you think there’s any possibility of her joining your old firm?”

There was no possibility of me joining my old firm, and I didn’t think the remaining partners of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds wanted an actual Sutter to replace the dead one or the disgraced one. They’d kept the name, of course, so as not to incur the expense of changing it, and also my father was legendary on Wall Street. As for me, well… my fall from grace had begun with the lady who was now asking me about getting her daughter a job. Ironic. Also silly. Carolyn’s next move would not be to an old Wall Street law firm; it would be to some sort of civil liberties group, or some do-gooder firm. And that was okay; someone in this family needed to have a heart. Plus, it would piss off William. But to address Susan’s question, I said, “I will make inquiries.”

“Thank you.” The subject was employment and the law, so she asked me, “How are you doing in London?”

“Fine.”

“Can you be absent from your job until September?”

“I’m on sabbatical.”

“So you’ll return?”

My future plans seemed to interest a lot of people more than they interested me. Maybe, though, it was time to verbalize my thoughts, and to be truthful and unambiguous, so I said, “When I left London, I honestly thought I would return. But now, being here, I’ve decided to stay in the U.S. Beyond that, I have no definite plans. But I have gotten a job offer.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I’m happy to hear that.” She asked, “What sort of offer?”

Rather than say, “Consigliere to the new don Bellarosa,” I said, “It’s bad luck to talk about it before it happens.”

She glanced at me, probably wondering when I became superstitious. She said, “Let me know if it happens.”

“I will.”

She advised me, “But you should take the summer off.”

Susan, like most people who are born into old money, was mostly clueless about that subject, so it never occurred to her that I might not be able to afford three months of working on my tan. I mean, if you’re a little short on cash, just sell an annuity. What’s the problem?

Also, regarding the subject of Stanhopes and money and work ethic, Edward and Carolyn received annual trust fund distributions and really didn’t need to work, but they did, to give meaning to their lives, and to do something interesting, or something useful for society.

Susan’s brother, Peter, however, was a totally useless human being, who’d spent his life and his trust fund distributions on perfecting the art of indolence, except for tennis, golf, and surfing, which at least kept his body in good shape while his brain atrophied. Peter was not a good role model for his niece and nephew, but thankfully, they knew that.

And then there was William, who’d managed to reach retirement age without working a day in his life, except for managing the family money. Well, to be fair, there was his two-year stint in the Coast Guard, which had been mandatory because of that annoying world war.

And let’s not forget Charlotte, who had been both a debutante and a dilettante before marrying William and becoming a full-time socialite. I suppose that could be a lot of work, but Charlotte would be hard-pressed to fill in the “state your occupation” box on an income tax form unless she wrote “Occupied with lazy household staff.”

As for Susan, she’d mostly followed in her brother’s footsteps, but then she’d embraced the newly enlightened concept of getting a job, and when I’d met her, she was working as the private social secretary for a fabulously wealthy publishing company heiress in Manhattan. This is a very acceptable job for a young lady of Susan’s social class, sort of like a lady-in-waiting for royalty.

We’d met, incidentally, at a summer wedding held under the stars at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The bride was a Guest, or as I said to Susan that night, a Guest at her own wedding. That got a little chuckle out of her, and we danced. The rest, as they say, is history.

The Stanhopes, at first, accepted me because of my lineage, though they had concerns about my net worth. But in their world, it’s more about who your parents are, where you went to school, your accent, and your social skills. Money is good, but money without pedigree is too common in America, so if you’re William and Charlotte Stanhope, and you’re trying to marry off your daughter, you go for the pedigree and punt on the bucks, which was why Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, Dad and Mom, gave us their blessings. They soon discovered, however, that they didn’t actually like me. The feeling was mutual, but it was too late; Susan and I were madly in love.

It had been a very good marriage, by any objective standard, including good sex, so if anyone had asked me what went wrong, I wouldn’t be able to answer, except to say, “She was screwing a Mafia don.” Of course, she was also a bit off her rocker, and I admit I can be a little sarcastic at times, but mostly we were happy with our lives and our children and each other.

I think, though, that Frank Bellarosa was like a malevolent force that entered Paradise, and no one was prepared for that. To continue the biblical theme, but with a different story line, Eve killed the serpent, but Adam stayed pissed off about her seduction and filed for divorce.

We walked in silence for a while, and I was sure that she, too, was thinking about the past, and I’d have liked to be able to read her mind, to see if her memories and mine had any similarities. Probably not; I was still dwelling on the negatives, and I was sure she was thinking happier thoughts.

I said to her, “Would you like to go back to the house?”

She replied, “No, I’m enjoying this walk.” She added, “Like old times, John.”

Indeed, if we could erase or forget that half year that ruined all the years before and the decade after, it would be better than old times; it would be just another summer Sunday together.

So we walked on, like old times, except we weren’t holding hands any longer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We’d covered most of her ten acres, except for the treed area around her stable, and I thought she might be avoiding that. Why? Because the stable brought back memories of Mr. Bellarosa, our new neighbor, insisting that his construction company do the work of moving the old Stanhope stables and carriage house from William’s land, which was for sale, to Susan’s property. It had been truly a Herculean task, disassembling the hundred-year-old structure, brick by brick, and reassembling it near the guest cottage. Plus, we needed a variance because the stable would be close to the Alhambra estate, and Frank Bellarosa had to sign off on that, which he was happy to do for us – or for Susan. And then Bellarosa’s guy, Dominic, gave us an estimate that looked like Mr. Bellarosa was underwriting most of the cost.

I mean, did I guess that Frank had the hots for Susan? Well, yes. Was I upset? No. Did I think it was amusing? Yes. Did I think Susan Stanhope was actually going to hop into bed with a Mafia guy? Not in a million years. Should I have paid more attention to what was going on? Apparently. Am I stupid? No, but I was preoccupied with my own tax problems, and I was entirely too trusting. Not to mention entirely too egotistical to even contemplate such a thing.

And little did I suspect that my buddy, Frank Bellarosa, had instigated this potentially ruinous and possibly criminal tax evasion charge against me so that he could pull a few strings and get me off the hook, thereby putting me in his debt, instead of the IRS’s debt. It was bad enough that a tax attorney had a tax problem, but solving the problem with the help of a Mafia guy was not one of my smarter moves. On the other hand, it worked.

Well, I certainly learned a lesson or two about life, and about myself, and about seduction and survival. Not to mention relearning an old lesson about the power and the mystery of sexual behavior. I mean, who would have thought that don Bellarosa, the head of a Mafia crime family, and Susan Stanhope, from a somewhat more prominent family, would have much to talk about? Actually, they didn’t; it was more You Jane, me Tarzan.

I could see the stables now, and I asked her, “Are you still riding?”

She glanced at where I was looking and replied, “Yes, but I don’t own a horse. I ride a little at a horse farm in Old Brookville.”

I nodded, recalling the night she’d killed Frank Bellarosa. She had saddled her horse, an Arabian stallion named Zanzibar, and announced to me that she was going for a night ride, which I advised her was dangerous, but she’d pointed out that there was a full moon, and the night was bright, and she’d ridden off.

About two hours later, Mr. Felix Mancuso of the FBI rang my doorbell and politely asked me to come with him to Alhambra. I knew in my guts that Susan had murdered her lover.

Mancuso’s colleagues had been house-sitting Frank Bellarosa since he’d become a government witness, and they’d done a very nice job of keeping him safe from his former friends and goombahs. Unfortunately, the FBI did not include Mrs. Sutter on their list of people who were not allowed access to don Bellarosa. In fact, Susan was high on the short list of people who had unlimited access to Frank because they’d been instructed, “Frank needs to get laid to keep him happy and talking.” Someone, however, should have remembered that (a) the female of the species is more dangerous than the male, and (b) hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Well, guys sometimes forget that, even FBI guys, and to be fair, they probably didn’t know about (b) until they heard the shots.

Susan, walking beside me now, was apparently thinking of horses, and not Frank Bellarosa or murder, because she said to me, “There are far fewer places where one can ride now. So many of the equestrian rights-of-way have been closed off, and many of the open fields and old estates are now subdivisions.”

Such as Alhambra. I said, with forced sincerity, “That’s too bad.” I recalled that one of Susan’s concerns, after she’d shot and killed her lover, was that Zanzibar was still tethered behind Frank’s mansion. I had to promise her I’d ride him home that night, which I did. I wasn’t overly fond of her high-strung animal, but I did unsaddle him and water him, though I didn’t brush him down, and if she’d known that, she would have killed me. Well… poor choice of words again.

She said, “The Ganzes turned the carriage house into a garage, and they used the stables to store lawn and gardening equipment, which is what I’m doing.”

“Good idea.”

“I really miss Zanzibar. I miss having my own horse. Do you miss Yankee?”

Yankee was my horse, and I hated him only slightly less than I hated Zanzibar, but I replied, “I think about him often.”

She glanced at me, then said, “Well, I found good homes for them.”

I was glad that the horses, at least, had a good home after she left.

It was a perfect morning, weather-wise at least, and I’d forgotten how magnificent these parklike grounds were. The entire three hundred acres of the original Stanhope estate had been planted with exotic and expensive specimen trees from around the world, and many of these trees were over a hundred years old. The estate had been in decline through the past few decades, but Susan – and the Ganzes – had maintained this ten-acre parcel, and I’d noticed that Amir Nasim had been putting some care into his property as well.

Coming back here, after so many years, I was struck by the fact that there could still be so many huge estates left on the Gold Coast, barely thirty miles from Manhattan, surrounded by a suburban county of well over a million people. The pressure to develop the remaining land to provide mini-mansions for newly minted millionaires was intense, but a new breed of multimillionaires, including foreigners like Amir Nasim, and people whose fortunes were of dubious origin such as Frank Bellarosa, had arrived with the resources to buy the old estates from the old families and breathe new life into them.

Before this had happened, however, there were probably a hundred or more magnificent estates whose mansions had been abandoned because of taxes, reversals of fortune, or maintenance costs, and when I was young, these ruins dotted the landscape, giving the appearance, as Anthony Bellarosa would agree, that an army of Vandals had passed through a wide swath of the Empire. Also, when I was a boy, these huge derelict mansions were the ultimate playhouse for games of make- believe. And when I got older, I played a different sort of game, called love among the ruins – some candles, a bottle of wine, a transistor radio, a bedroll, and a newly liberated young lady on birth control pills.

This all reminded me that one of Susan’s many talents was oil paintings, and her forte was painting these abandoned mansions. She had been locally famous for her romantic representations of these vegetation-covered ruins, which she painted in the spirit, if not the style, of Piranesi’s engravings of Roman ruins. But the architectural diversity of the Gold Coast mansions, as well as their varying states of decay, ranging from salvageable to lost, allowed her more latitude than Piranesi, of course, and she worked in oils and acrylics. If that sounds like I know what I’m talking about, I don’t; I got that straight from the artist. In any case, I was curious, so I asked her, “Are you still painting?”

She smiled, then looked wistful, I thought, and replied, “Not anymore. But I might.”

“Why did you stop?”

She thought about that, then replied, “I tried painting in Hilton Head… I did a few seascapes, and a lot of those palmetto trees… but somehow I just lost the… talent, I guess.”

“I don’t think you can lose talent.”

“Well… maybe the subjects didn’t interest me. You know, like when an artist moves from where he or she was inspired to someplace else.”

“Right.” I thought, too, perhaps her mental state had changed. If good artists are crazy – and she was a good artist, and crazy – then a return to some degree of mental health might kill that spark of mad genius. That’s good and bad. Mostly, I think, good. I mean, I can live with a bad painting, but it’s not easy living with a crazy wife.

Anyway, I wondered if this new, improved tranquil personality I was now witnessing was the happy result of successful therapy or very good meds.

Susan said to me, “Now that I’m back… I should see if I’m inspired.”

“Right.” But don’t stop those meds.

Ironically, one of the best paintings she’d ever done, and probably the last, was of the ruins of Alhambra. Mrs. Sutter, on the occasion of our first visit to Alhambra for coffee and cannolis, generously offered to paint the Alhambra palm court as a housewarming gift to our new neighbors. Susan had photographs of the magnificent two-tiered atrium palm court as it existed before the Bellarosas restored the mansion, and she explained to them that she was going to paint it as a ruin. This surprised Mrs. Bellarosa, who wondered why anyone would want to paint what she called “a wreck.” But Mr. Bellarosa, recalling some art he’d seen in Rome, thought it was a swell idea. I, too, was surprised at this offer, because this was no small undertaking, and Susan rarely gave away any of her paintings, though she sometimes donated them for charity auctions. Susan had informed the Bellarosas that though she could work mostly from her photographs and from memory, she needed to set up her easel in the palm court, so she could get the right perspective, and take advantage of the shifting sunlight from the glass dome, and so forth. Frank assured her that the door was permanently open to her.

Thinking back on that evening, as I’d done a few dozen times, there was more going on here than a housewarming gift, or coffee and cannolis.

It was hard to believe, but Susan Stanhope Sutter and Frank the Bishop Bellarosa had connected like a plug in a socket, and I should have seen the lights going on in their eyes. But I didn’t, and neither did Anna, and we both remained clueless in the dark.

In any case, the relocation of the stable on Susan’s property, and the painting of the Alhambra palm court, led to frequent contact between Mrs. Sutter and Mr. Bellarosa.

Meanwhile, I was in the city a lot, and Anna spent a good deal of time being driven back and forth in the black Cadillac to Brooklyn, where she visited her family and stocked up on cannolis and olive oil.

I still don’t know who made the first move on whom, or where and how it happened, but I’m sure that Mr. Italian Stud thought he was the aggressor.

Susan continued with her last thought and said, “Most of the abandoned houses are either restored or razed now, but I still have a lot of old photographs that I could paint from.”

“Or maybe you should paint your parents and call it American Grotesque.” Well, I didn’t say that – I thought it. I said, “Paint the gatehouse before Nasim puts aluminum siding on it.” That may have actually been a Freudian slip – I mean, inviting her to set up her easel outside my house. Amazing how the subconscious mind works.

She replied, “That’s a good idea… with the wrought-iron gates.”

The subject of Susan’s artistic periods, past and present, seemed closed, and we continued our walk down memory lane. Then she changed subjects completely and asked me, “John, what are they saying in London about 9/11?”

I recalled my answer to Elizabeth on that question and replied, “They’re saying they’re next.”

She thought about that and observed, “The world has become a frightening place.”

I replied, “The world is a fine place, and most of the people in it are good people. I saw that on my sail.”

“Did you? That’s good.” She then said, “But what happened here… it has so changed everything for so many people.”

“I know.”

“Some people we knew were killed.”

“I know that.”

“Nothing will ever be the same for those families.”

“No, it won’t be.”

“What happened… it’s made a lot of people I know rethink their lives.”

“I understand that.”

“It made me appreciate things… I was frantic that day because Carolyn was downtown, and I couldn’t get a call through to her.”

“I know. Neither could I.”

She turned toward me as we walked, and said, “I thought you would call me that day.”

“I almost did… I did speak to Edward, and he said he’d gotten through to Carolyn on her cell phone, and she was all right, and he said he had called you and told you that.”

“He did… but I thought I’d hear from you.”

“I almost called.” I added, “I thought you’d call me.”

“I did, but when I called, I realized it was three A.M. in London, so I hung up, and the next day… I was drained and too… I was crying too much… so I e-mailed you… but I didn’t hear back from you.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right… but that… that horror made me think… there are terrible things that can happen to us out of the blue… for no reason. Just because we’re there, and something evil has come our way. It made me put a lot of things into perspective, and it was a wake-up call… and that’s when I began thinking about moving back here, and being close to people I grew up with, and… well, I began thinking about you.”

I didn’t respond for a while, then I said truthfully, “I had similar thoughts.” I mean, how long can we hold a grudge? Well, in my case, a long time. But 9/11 did get me thinking and possibly started me on the road that led me here, as it had led Susan here.

Susan continued her thought and asked, “How long can we stay angry at people we once loved in the face of such… real hatred and evil?”

That sounded like a rhetorical question, but it wasn’t, so I answered, “The anger is gone. Even the feeling of betrayal is gone. But what remains is… well, a badly wounded ego, and a sense of… embarrassment that this happened to me. In public.”

“And you haven’t gotten over that?”

“No.”

“Will you ever?”

“No.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

She took a deep breath and said, “He’s dead, John. I killed him. For us.”

The time had come to confront this, so I replied, “That’s what you said.”

She stopped walking, and I did, too. We faced each other, and she said to me, “I was ready to go to jail for the rest of my life to give you back your pride and your honor. That was my public penance, and my public humiliation, which I did, hoping you would take me back.”

I hardly knew what to say, but I tried and said, “Susan… murdering a human being is not-”

“He was evil.”

Indeed, he was. But I didn’t think she realized that until he scorned her. Right up to that time, I think she was ready to run off with him to Italy, where the government was going to send him under the Witness Protection Program. I said to her, “You need to tell me why you killed him.”

“I just told you.”

I was seeing a little of the old Susan again, the bright green eyes, crazy eyes, and the pouty lips that morphed into a thin, pressed mouth, with her chin thrust forward as if to say, “I dare you to contradict me.”

Well, I needed to do that, and I said, “That’s what you may believe now, ten years later. But that is not why you killed him. Not for me, and not for us.”

She stared at me, and I stared back. I had confronted her with this once before, in the palm court of Alhambra, with Frank Bellarosa lying dead on the floor, and a dozen FBI agents and county detectives standing off to the side so that Mrs. Sutter, a homicide suspect, and her husband, who was also her attorney, could converse in private. And when I asked her then why she killed him, she gave me the answer I’d just gotten. I could have accepted that, and from there we could have possibly rebuilt our lives.

But that wasn’t the correct answer, and you can’t build on lies.

The correct answer, the truth, actually, was something far different than Susan’s stated motives for killing her lover. In fact, I have to take some blame for that, or some credit, if you look at it differently.

We continued to stare at each other, and I thought back to my visit to Frank Bellarosa at Alhambra, where he was lying in bed, sick with the flu, not to mention recovering from the after-effects of the shotgun blasts he’d taken some months before at Giulio’s restaurant.

This had not been my first visit, but it was to be my last, and a few days later, he’d be dead. He’d said to me, then, apropos of his offer on another occasion to do me any favor I wanted in exchange for me saving his life at Giulio’s, “Well, you got me wondering about that favor I owe you.”

I had thought long and hard about that favor, so I said to him, “Okay, Frank, I’d like you to tell my wife it’s over between you two and that you’re not taking her to Italy, which is what I think she believes, and I want you to tell her that you only used her to get to me.”

He thought about that, then said, “Done.” But added, “I’ll tell her I used her, if you want, but that wasn’t it. You gotta know that.”

I did know that. I knew that, as impossible as it was to believe, Frank and Susan were in love, and she was ready to leave me for him. Lust, I understand, from firsthand experience. But the only woman I’ve ever loved, Susan Stanhope Sutter, who actually still loved me, was madly in love with Frank Bellarosa – and Frank, apparently, was in love with her. That was why he’d sold out to the Feds – so he and Susan could be together in Italy, or wherever, and start a new life together. It would probably have lasted a year or two, but people who are obsessed and in high heat don’t think that far into the future.

In any case, true to his word, he’d obviously told her what I’d asked him to tell her, on the phone or in person prior to that night, and Susan apparently snapped. Hell hath no fury and all that. Ironically, a few weeks before, he’d given her the gun that killed him, to keep the FBI from finding it. The rest is history, and tragedy, and maybe a little comedy, if you weren’t personally involved.

The question, of course, was this: Why did I ask Frank to tell Susan it was over, and that he was not taking her to Italy with him, and that he’d used her to recruit me as his attorney? Obviously, I did that to get Susan back – or to get back at Susan. And, of course, I had no idea that she’d snap and shoot him. Or did I?

I always thought that Frank Bellarosa, who was a great admirer of Niccolò Machiavelli, would have appreciated my… well, Machiavellian solution to this problem. And I still wonder if Frank grasped what he’d done to himself in those last few seconds between him telling Susan it was over and her pulling the gun. If he had any last words, or thoughts, I hoped they were, “John, you son of a bitch!”

Susan and I continued to face each other, and I returned to the present and looked into her eyes. She held my stare, then dropped her eyes and said to me, “I saw him earlier that day, and he told me that he was through with me, and he never loved me, and that his only interest in me was… fucking a society bitch… and… to make me convince you to work for him.” She took a breath and continued, “Then he told me to leave and not come back and not call him. But I went back that night… and we made love… and I thought it was all right again… but afterwards, he told me to leave, and I said I wouldn’t, so he said he’d call for the FBI to throw me out. I… couldn’t believe it, and I… became angry.”

I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t take my eyes off her. She seemed very calm, the way she is when she’s on the verge of an emotional breakdown, or a blow-up. I could never tell which it was going to be. Apparently, neither could Frank, or he’d have been on his guard. He should have at least remembered the gun.

She continued in a barely audible voice, “I told him I loved him, and that I’d given up my life for him. And he told me… he said, ‘Go back to John. He loves you, and I don’t.’ He said I’d be lucky if you took me back, and I should thank God if you did. And he called me… names… and told me to get out…”

I stood there, unable to say anything. I did, though, think about Frank Bellarosa, and I wondered how much he had loved her, and how hard it was for him to say what he’d said to her, which, I just discovered, was more than I’d asked of him. But he owed me a very big favor for saving his life at Giulio’s, and he wanted to be able to say to me, “We are even on favors, Counselor. Nobody owes anybody anything now.” But he didn’t live long enough to tell me we were even.

Susan moved a step closer to me, and we were only inches apart. She said, “And that’s why I killed him.” She asked me, “All right?”

I half expected to see tears running down her cheeks, but Susan is not much of a crier, though I did see her lower lip quiver. I said to her, “All right. He’s dead.”

We both turned and began our walk back to the house. One of us could have said something, but there was nothing left to say.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We walked through the rose garden to the patio. Somewhere along the way, Susan had dropped the rose stem, but the other roses sat on the table and she stared at them.

I was certain that after her confession, she expected me to leave, which I wanted to do, but I still needed to speak to her about Amir Nasim and Anthony Bellarosa, and I wanted to do that now in person, so I said to her, “I have something important to tell you.”

She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

I continued, “I’m sure you’d rather be alone now, but if you can sit and listen to me for about ten minutes…”

She replied, “If it’s important.”

“It is.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit?”

“I need a few minutes. Would you like something?”

“Water.”

She went into the house, and I stood at the wicker table and opened the box she’d given me. Inside, as she said, were copies of letters from Edward and Carolyn, and also a stack of family photographs. I flipped through them and noticed a few group shots that included my parents and hers.

I recalled an advertisement I’d once seen for a company that did photo retouching; basically, this Orwellian enterprise could make unwanted people disappear from photographs, then fill in the background where they’d been. I made a mental note to contact these clever people to vaporize William and Charlotte. Unfortunately, altering a photograph does not alter a memory or history.

I shuffled through the remaining photographs, and I noted that she had not included any risqué photographs of us. This made me think that despite Emily Post’s advice, I should not have put those nude shots of us in her envelope. I looked at the envelope on the table and was about to slip out those photos and put them into my jacket, but the screen door opened, and she came out to the patio carrying a tray with a liter of sparkling water and two glasses.

Susan looked more composed now – and maybe relieved that her belated confession that her adultery wasn’t just lust, but also love, hadn’t made me walk away. She nodded toward the photos she’d given me and said, “Those are wonderful shots.” She added, “I have stacks of them if you’d like to go through them someday.”

“Thank you.”

She set the tray on the table, sat, and I sat opposite her. She poured water for me and said, “Please get right to the point.”

“I will.” I drank my water and began, “First, I had tea with Amir Nasim, and he told me that the reason he wants to buy your house is because he wants total privacy. I believe he has issues with the concept of cultural diversity, meaning he doesn’t want an attractive unmarried woman living in the middle of his property.” I paused, then continued, “But then he told me that he had some security concerns.”

I let that sink in, and after a few seconds Susan informed me, “His wife hinted at the same thing.”

That surprised me, but then I realized that Nasim would use his wife to pass on that information to Susan. I offered my opinion and said, “I think he’s either post-9/11 paranoid, or he’s making that up so you’ll consider selling him this property.”

She thought about that and asked, “What if his security concerns are real?”

“Then he should have gone to the authorities. And he may have, though he never mentioned that to me. But if he had gone to the authorities, someone from the FBI or the local police would have called on you.” I asked, “Have they?”

“No.”

“And I haven’t heard from them, either. So I have to conclude that Nasim did not contact the authorities, which makes me wonder about his security concerns.”

She considered that, then replied, “Well, you’re a lawyer, and you think like a lawyer. But he’s from a different culture, and he has a different mind-set about the police.”

“That’s a valid point. But he’s lived here and in London long enough to know that if he goes to the police, they won’t shake him down or beat him up for annoying them.”

She nodded, then said, “Well, even if his concerns are real, it’s his problem, not mine.”

I informed her, “Nasim asked me to call him if I noticed anything suspicious.”

She nodded and said, “Soheila said the same thing.”

I offered, “Or call me.”

She looked at me, smiled, but didn’t reply.

It occurred to me, of course, that Amir Nasim’s concerns about being on a hit list, real or imagined, had the positive effect of raising everyone’s alert level on this property, which was a good thing in regard to the more probable threat from Anthony Bellarosa.

Apropos of that, and recalling Ms. Post’s advice to me, I wanted to ask Susan if she had a gun. But considering what she’d done the last time she had a gun, that might be a touchy subject with her, especially if I also asked her if she knew how to use it. We actually knew the answer to that. So I’d hold off on that question for now.

I was thinking of Anthony Bellarosa more than Amir Nasim when I said to Susan, “In any case, to play it safe, I’ll go to the police, and suggest that they call the FBI. You should do the same.”

She didn’t respond to that, then looked at me and said, “This is unbelievable… that we should even think about things like… foreign terrorists.”

I informed her, in case she forgot, “The world, including this world here, has changed. So we need to think about things like this.”

She retreated into a pensive silence, recalling, I’m sure, the world she grew up in, when the biggest outside threat was nuclear Armageddon, which was so unthinkable that no one even thought about it on a day-to-day basis. The only other foreign intrusion into our safe and secure world had been the annual Soviet invasion of the local beaches each summer, launched from the Russian-owned estate in Glen Cove. I was sure that Susan and everyone else around here were nostalgic for those days when our only contact with foreign enemies was a handful of surly Russians leaving empty vodka bottles on the public beach. Now, unfortunately, we were all thinking about 9/11, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I further revealed to Susan, “Nasim said he’d pay me a ten percent commission if I could convince you to sell.”

That brought her out of her thoughts, and she responded, “That’s unethical.”

“Actually, it’s just good business.”

She asked me, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to make it fifteen percent, and I’d tell you I saw Iranian assassins hiding in your hedgerows.”

She smiled, then assured me, “I won’t be pressured or intimidated. This is my land, and it’s been in my family for over a hundred years. If Nasim is frightened of something here, he can move.”

“I understand.” I also understood that she wasn’t going to pack up and leave because of Anthony Bellarosa. Nevertheless, I said, “There’s another important matter I need to discuss with you.”

She looked at me and said, “Anthony Bellarosa.”

This surprised me at first, then it didn’t. Susan may be crazy, but she’s not stupid. I replied, “Yes. Anthony Bellarosa.”

She informed me, “I had heard that he lived on the Alhambra property before I made my offer to buy back my house. He didn’t figure into my plans then, and he doesn’t figure into them now.”

“All right, but…” Tolkien’s famous line on that subject popped into my head, and I said to her, “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.”

She shrugged and said to me, “Unless you have something specific to tell me about the dragon, I don’t want to discuss this.” She added, “I thank you for your concern.” Then she smiled and said, “Well, I assume you are expressing concern and not some secret delight.”

I wanted her to understand that this was serious, so I didn’t return the smile, and I said, “I am very concerned.”

This seemed to get through to her, and she asked, “How did you find out he lived next door?”

“He stopped by the gatehouse last Monday.”

This news, that Anthony Bellarosa had actually been on the property, got her attention, and she asked, “Why?”

I replied, “It was an unannounced social call. He welcomed me back to the neighborhood.”

Susan was vacillating between not wanting to discuss this and knowing that she probably needed to hear what I had to say. So while she was trying to decide, I continued, “He wanted to speak to me about his father.”

She didn’t reply.

I pressed on, “He asked about you.”

Susan looked at me, then slipped into her Lady Stanhope mode and said, “If he has anything he wants to know about me, he should ask me, not you.”

Susan has a kind of courage, born, as I’ve indicated, of that upper-class breeding that could best be described as a mixture of haughty indifference toward physical danger, and a naïve belief, bordering on delusion, that she was not a member of the victim class. Another way to understand it is to think of Susan telling a burglar to wipe his feet before he enters. In any case, to get her nose out of the air and her feet on the ground, I said to her, “He’s like his father – he doesn’t discuss important matters with women.”

That had the effect of annoying her, while also reminding her of how she’d created this problem. She said to me, apropos of that, “John, this is not your problem. It’s mine. I do appreciate your concern, and I’m touched, really, but unless he’s made a specific statement to you that I should know about, then you don’t need to involve yourself in-”

“Susan. Get off your high horse.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and stared off into the garden.

I said, “To remind you, you killed his father. He will not be discussing that with you. But he did discuss it with me.” I didn’t mention my subsequent conversations with Anthony at dinner or in Oyster Bay, but I did say, “While he made no specific threats, and never will, I came away with the distinct impression that he’s looking for revenge.”

She kept staring off at a fixed spot in the garden, probably thinking about rose blight. That’s how she handles big problems that she can’t deal with; she sublimates and thinks about small problems. That’s what she did after she murdered Frank Bellarosa – with his body sprawled out on the floor and a half dozen homicide detectives waiting to take her to jail, she was worried about her horse, and probably worried about how Anna was going to get the bloodstains off the floor.

I decided to end this conversation, knowing that I’d done what I needed to do, and knowing, too, that anything I said after my warning would be conjecture, opinion, and advice which she didn’t want. I did say, however, “You should go to the police and give them a sworn statement…” In case something does happen. But I didn’t say that.

She didn’t reply, so we sat there, then finally she asked me, “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I should be going.”

She didn’t seem to hear me.

I stood, but she didn’t, so I said, “I can let myself out.”

Again, no reply.

I understood that it had been an emotionally draining morning for her – and for me. Her confession to me about her real reason for killing the man she loved was enough mental trauma for one day, but then I’d brought up the subject of Amir Nasim and Iranian assassins, and next I reminded her that Frank Bellarosa’s son was in the neighborhood and asking about her. I could only imagine what was going through her mind right now.

She helped me understand her mental anguish by asking me, “Have you learned to like lamb in England?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking of lamb for dinner, but if you still won’t eat it, then I might do veal.”

I cleared my throat and replied, “Lamb would be fine.”

“Good.” She looked at me, and seemed surprised that I was standing, then asked, “Where are you going?”

“I… have a few things to do.” I explained, “I wanted to make my Sunday calls to the children.”

She thought a second, then suggested, “Why don’t we call them together?”

“Well…”

“They’d like that.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t… surprise them. And maybe you need some time for yourself now.”

She ignored that, poured me the last of the water and asked, “Will you come with me to visit Ethel?”

I assumed I was supposed to sit, so I did, and replied, “I really have a lot to do.” And I didn’t want to run into Elizabeth at Fair Haven accompanied by Susan, any more than I’d wanted to run into Susan at Fair Haven accompanied by Elizabeth. And then there was my four o’clock dinner with the Bellarosas if I still wanted to show up. I thought about that, and wondered if going there was a good idea. Keep your enemies close and all that.

I looked at Susan and saw now that she’d opened the envelope and was flipping through the photographs I’d given her. They were mostly family shots, and apparently she hadn’t come to the adults-only photos, because she said, “I like this one of the four of us loading the boat on the dock at Seawanhaka. Who took that?”

“I don’t recall.” I suggested, “You can look at those later. I think I should go.”

She stopped flipping and focused on a photograph, then flipped slowly through a few more, and she smiled and said, “I wondered what happened to these.”

I didn’t reply.

She seemed to be enjoying the photographs, and she had a sort of naughty grin on her face, then she said, “Oh, my…” and pushed a photograph in front of me.

I looked at it and saw it was a timed tripod shot of Susan and me on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall. The Stanhopes, when they moved, had left behind some outdoor furniture on the terrace, and I remembered that Susan and I sometimes went there for sundown cocktails, and for the view, which was why we’d brought the camera and tripod.

Well, it had been a warm summer day, and after a few cocktails, Susan had suggested a strip version of the game of rock-paper-scissors, with the loser performing oral sex on the other. That seemed like a reasonable suggestion, and a no-lose game, so we began, and Susan had a streak of bad luck and was naked within a few minutes.

The photograph shows me standing against a column with my shorts around my ankles collecting my bet.

Susan observed, “We can’t do that anymore.”

I smiled and replied, “No, I don’t think Mr. Nasim would approve of cocktails on his terrace.”

She smiled, too, and added, “Or blow jobs.”

I realized that Susan was in a different frame of mind than she’d been five minutes before, and I hadn’t been paying attention.

She slid a few more photos toward me, and I assured her, “I’ve seen them.”

“Did you make copies for yourself?”

“I did not.”

“I can do that for you.” She turned her attention back to the photographs and said, “I haven’t gained an ounce.” She glanced at me and observed, “It doesn’t look like you have, either.”

My mouth was dry, and I finished my water and again glanced at my watch, but Susan was staring at six or seven photos that she’d spread out on the table. She looked up at me and said, “This brings back some good memories, John.”

I nodded.

Then she stood, stared at me, and in a tone of voice that left no doubt about her meaning, said, “I’d like to show you what I’ve done to the house.”

Well… why not? I mean, why not? Before I could think of why not, I stood, we reached across the table and held hands, then we walked together into the house.

The tour started and ended in our old bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The upstairs master bedroom was warm, and Susan lay naked on her back atop the sheets with her legs parted and her hands behind her head. She was awake, but her eyes were closed.

The window and the drapes were open, and daylight lit the room. An oscillating floor fan swept over the bed, and the breeze cooled the sweat from our bodies and stirred her long red hair.

I sat up and looked at her lying beside me. Her skin had a nice early summer tan, including her breasts, but she was milky white where she’d worn a bikini bottom that barely covered her bright red pubic hair.

With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Are you looking at me?”

“I am.”

“How do I look?”

“Like you did the day I first made love to you.” Which was true.

“Thank you. I have good genes.”

Indeed, William and Charlotte were a handsome couple; unfortunately, their brains were scrambled.

Susan opened her eyes, turned toward me, and said, “I haven’t had anyone up here.”

I replied, “That’s your business.”

Still looking at me, she said, “I wanted you to know.” She smiled and added, “It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I forgot who ties who up.”

I smiled, too, but I didn’t offer any help on that subject, so she asked me, “And you?”

“Well…”

“That’s all right. I don’t want to know.”

Of course she did, so to get it out of the way, I said, “There’s a woman in London.” I remembered to add, “But it’s not serious.”

“What’s her name?”

“Samantha.”

“Nice name.” She suggested, “Get rid of her.”

“Well… all right. But…”

Susan sat up, took my hand, looked at me and said, “We’ve wasted ten years, John. I don’t want to waste another minute.”

“I know… but…”

“Is this too fast for you?”

“Well, it is rather sudden.”

“Do you love me?”

“I do. Always have.”

“Me, too. Forever. So?”

I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

“I am. And so are you.”

Apparently, this was a done deal. But, to be honest, I think I knew that two minutes after walking into this house. I mean, putting aside all my negative thoughts about her, and despite everything that happened this morning, the minute we laid eyes on each other I felt that extraordinary sexual energy that we used to have, and I knew that she did, too. Sex isn’t love, of course, though it will do in a pinch, but in this case the love was already there, and always had been, so all we needed to do was do it. And we did.

It could have been awkward after ten years, but it wasn’t; we were at ease with each other, which is the good part of being with a partner whom you’ve had a lot of practice with. Also, of course, there was an element of newness after all these years, and maybe a slight feeling that this was somehow taboo. You can’t beat that combination.

I said to Susan, “I’ve thought about this.”

“Me, too. Often.” She asked me, “Why did you take so long to call me?”

“I was… well, afraid.”

“Of?”

“Of… well, afraid this would happen, and afraid it wouldn’t.”

“Me, too. Now we don’t have to be afraid.”

“No.” I said to her, “I thought you would call me.”

“I was playing hard to get.” She added, “I was going to give it another forty-eight hours before I called you. Then I saw Elizabeth’s car there overnight, and I was… what’s a good word?”

“Destroyed? Devastated? Pissed off?”

“That’s it. But I was ready to forgive you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Do you like her?”

“I do.”

She didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “She likes you. She told me that when we had lunch. Well, she was coy about it, considering the circumstances, but I could tell.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

“I think so, too. So, we can all be friends.”

“Great.” A lot seemed to have been decided in the last thirty minutes that I wasn’t aware of, but that’s what sometimes happens after you have sex with someone. I mean, you go from a polite “hello” to naked in bed, engaged in the most intimate acts with a person you may or may not know that well, and then – if you’re not pressed for time – you need to engage in pillow talk. And talking is where you usually get into trouble, sometimes without even knowing it.

In this case, however, with Susan, Fate had long ago decided that I’d be here, so I might as well get with the program. I said to her, “I never thought we’d be apart for the rest of our lives.”

“I knew we would not be.”

I confessed to her, “I saw you on Tuesday in Locust Valley.”

“You did? Where?”

“At that food place, a few doors from Rolf’s.”

“Oh, right. I was having lunch with Charlie Frick.”

“It looked like a woman.”

“Charlene. Charlie Frick. She’s one of the Fricks.”

“Apparently, if that’s her name.”

“John, you just got laid. Can you tone down your sarcasm?”

I didn’t see the connection, but I was certain there’d be more of these post-coital non sequiturs. I said, “Sorry.”

She asked me, “Where were you? I hope you weren’t getting one of your awful sandwiches at Rolf’s.”

And then there’s post-coital criticism of my life. I replied, “Actually, I just got a coffee at Rolf’s, and I came out and saw you and Mitzi.”

“Charlie. Why didn’t you say hello?”

“Because that wasn’t how I wanted to meet you for the first time after four years.”

She squeezed my hand and said, “Me neither.” She asked me, “How did you feel? What were you thinking?”

“I felt… I think, sad. And I thought you never looked so beautiful.”

She snuggled up to me and put her arms around me. She said, “I love you, and we’ll never be apart again, and never be sad again.” She kissed me and said, “Can you believe this? Can you believe we’re together again?”

“It is hard to believe.”

“Will you marry me again?”

I was actually prepared for that question, so I replied, without hesitation, “If that’s what you want.”

That must not have been the correct answer because she moved away from me and asked, “What do you want?”

I tried again and asked her, “Will you marry me?”

“Let me think about it. Okay, I’ll marry you.”

“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

“I know I have. But let’s live together for a year, to make sure.”

“All right. No, I mean, let’s get married as soon as possible.”

“If that’s what you want. What are you doing tomorrow?”

Clearly, Susan was happy, and when she’s happy, she’s funny. I was happy, too, but this was a little sudden, and I wasn’t processing it at the speed it was happening, and I really wanted at least ten minutes to think about completely changing my life. But then I remembered what I’d said to Elizabeth about using more heart and less brain, and about taking chances. At this point in my life, I didn’t have much to lose by marrying my ex-wife. I suppose I could do worse. On a more positive note, I was in love with her, and I was being given a second chance to be happy.

Susan, who knows me, asked, “Are you talking yourself into or out of marrying me?”

I replied, “I would like nothing more than for us to be married again, and to be a family again.”

She sat back against the headboard, and I saw tears welling up in her eyes. She said, “I am so sorry, John, for what happened.”

“I know. Me, too.”

We sat there for a while, and I watched the fan sweeping the room and felt the breeze on my body. Being here, in our old bedroom, with our old furniture, brought back good memories of making love, lazy Sunday mornings, the children when they were young coming in to snuggle with us, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day breakfast in bed, and staying up and talking late into the night. I remembered the anniversary card she’d written me: 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 could dwell on the past, and on the ten-year gap between now and the last time we’d made love here, but I’d done that, and it had gotten me nothing but anger, resentment, and a troubled soul. So I took her hand, looked at her, and said, “I forgive you.”

She nodded her head and said, “I knew you would.”

So did I.

She moved closer to me and put her head on my shoulder, and we both sat there, enjoying the moment and thinking ahead into the future.

It was, indeed, time to move forward.

Unfortunately, the past was not really dead and buried; it was alive, and it lived at Alhambra, and it was about to catch up with us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sex in the shower is my kind of multitasking.

Afterwards, we dressed and went downstairs into the kitchen, and Susan asked me, “Are you hungry?”

I looked at the regulator clock and saw it was a little after 1:00 P.M., and I remembered my Sunday spaghetti and meatballs at the Bellarosas’.

I also remembered I was supposed to call Elizabeth for a possible 7:00 P.M. rendezvous. A lot had been set in motion before this unexpected turn of events, and I wished now that I’d called Susan last week. But who knows what would have happened last week if we’d met? I wasn’t really ready then for what just happened, and in fact, I wasn’t sure I was ready now for what was happening. But clever people, like me, can change plans as the situation changes. As for my plans with Elizabeth, for instance, people who are getting married should cut down on their dating. As for dinner with the Bellarosa family, that decision wasn’t as simple.

“John? Hello?”

I looked at Susan and said, “You know, I could go for a Bloody Mary.”

“I don’t think I have tomato juice.”

“Even better. Vodka on the rocks.”

She opened the freezer, retrieved a bottle of Grey Goose and poured it in a glass, then added ice and filled the glass with orange juice, saying, “You can’t drink straight vodka this early in the day.”

I thought I could. I was starting to remember things from my first marriage, which was also my last.

Susan poured herself an orange juice and handed me my drink. We clinked glasses, and I said, “Here’s to us.”

“To us.”

I sipped my drink and couldn’t taste the vodka.

She asked again, “Would you like something to eat?”

“No, this is fine.”

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Uh… let me think…” I almost had Elizabeth on the patio table, but I shouldn’t mention that. I said, “An English muffin.”

“Is that all?”

“Crabapple jelly. Coffee.”

“And did you dine alone?”

“I did not.”

She inquired, “How is it that you and she slept in the same house overnight, and nothing happened?”

I was getting a little impatient with the Elizabeth questions, and I said, “It doesn’t matter how or why nothing happened. What matters is that nothing happened.”

She sensed I was annoyed and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t believe how jealous I am. I won’t mention it again.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

“Susan-”

“Or were you being faithful to Samantha?”

That sounded like a loaded question, so I explained, “Elizabeth, as you might imagine, is very upset about her mother. We spent the whole day going through Ethel’s papers and personal property, and by the end of the day she was emotionally drained, and she drank too much wine and went to bed early. I slept on the couch. End of story.”

“All right. I’m sorry.” She inquired, “Do you have any third-party witnesses to those events?”

I was about to lose my patience, but when I looked at her, I saw she was smiling, so I, too, smiled, and she put down her glass and hugged me. She said, “I don’t want to be jealous.”

Could’ve fooled me. I put my glass on the counter, and we hugged and kissed.

She said, “Let’s call Edward and Carolyn.”

She seemed excited about that, and I realized that I was, too. I said, “You make the call.”

She went to the wall phone, dialed, and said, “I’m trying Carolyn on her cell phone first.”

Carolyn answered, and they chatted for a few seconds, and from what I could gather, Carolyn was at Sunday brunch with friends. Susan said to her, “I’d like to speak to you in private for a moment. Yes, all right.” Susan covered the phone and said to me, “I want you to tell her.” Carolyn came back on the line, and Susan said, “Your father wants to speak to you.”

That must have confused Carolyn because Susan added, “No, he’s right here.” She handed me the phone, and I said to my daughter, “How are you, sweetheart?”

She replied, “Great. So… how are you?”

“Also great.” I could hear street noises in the background, and I asked, “Where are you?”

“In front of Petrossian.” She added, “I’m with friends here.”

I didn’t think assistant district attorneys made that much money, so maybe the Stanhope trust was paying for the champagne and caviar. I joked, “I hope this is an expense account brunch.”

“I have a date, Dad.”

“Oh…” I still couldn’t think of my little girl with a man, especially one who plied her with caviar and champagne. I joked again, “Then get seconds on the Beluga.”

She ignored that and asked, “So… what’s happening?”

Good question. I glanced at Susan, who decided to put the phone on speaker, and I said, “Well… I’m here at your mother’s house…”

“I know.”

“And… well, Cari, we’ve decided to get back together-” I heard a squeal, and I thought she’d gotten hit by a bus or something, then she squealed again and said, “Oh my God! Oh, Dad, that’s wonderful! Oh, I’m sooo happy. Mom! Mom!”

Susan took the phone from me, turned it off speaker, and began a rapid-fire conversation with her daughter, punctuated by unintelligible squeaks and squeals.

I figured my speaking part was finished, so I moved off and freshened my orange juice with vodka. I heard Susan say, “John, that’s enough,” then she turned her attention back to Carolyn.

After a few minutes of coded girl talk, Susan put the phone back on speaker and said, “We’ll let you get back to your friends. Call me when you have a moment. Your father wants to say goodbye.”

I called across the kitchen, “Bye, Cari! Love you!”

“Bye, Dad! I love you!”

Susan signed off and said to me, “She’s so happy for us, John. Isn’t this wonderful?”

“It is.” I said, “She has a date.”

“I told her we were going to call Edward now, and she said she’ll call him tonight.”

“Who is this guy?”

“He’s our son. Edward.”

“No, I mean her date.”

“Oh… I don’t know. She broke up with Cliff, and now she’s dating again. But she’s not serious about anyone.”

“Petrossian for a two-hundred-dollar brunch sounds serious.” I speculated, “Maybe this has something to do with her concern about world hunger.”

Susan ignored me and suggested, “You call Edward.”

I glanced at the clock and observed, “It’s only ten A.M. in L.A. He’s probably sleeping.”

She took the phone, dialed, and said, “I’m trying his apartment.” After a few rings, someone answered, and Susan said, “Hello, this is Mrs. Sutter, Edward’s mother. Is he there?” She listened again and said, “Tell him it’s important. I’ll hold. Thank you.” She informed me, “He’s in the shower.”

“Who was that?”

“A young lady without the good manners to give me her name, nor the social skills to say that Edward was indisposed.”

“Maybe that’s what she said. Indisposed. And you heard ‘in de shower.’”

“Very funny.”

Susan, I recalled, had always been a little more critical of her son’s choice of girlfriends than she’d been of Carolyn’s choice of boyfriends. I usually had the opposite reaction to their significant others. I’m sure Freud could explain that if I wrote to him. Dear Sigmund-

Susan said to me, “I hope I didn’t alarm him.”

I replied, “You probably sent that girl bursting into the shower.”

“John, please.” Susan put the phone close to her ear and said, “Good morning, sweetheart. No, everything is fine. I just wanted to share some good news with you. Hold on. Someone wants to say hello.”

She handed me the phone, and I, using his old nickname, said, “Hello, Skipper.”

“Dad!”

“Sorry to pull you out of the shower-”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“Who answered the phone?”

“Oh… that was Stacy. She’s… we’re going to the beach.”

“Terrific. Which one?”

“Probably Malibu. Hey, Dad, you have to come out here.”

“I plan to. But I guess I’ll see you here soon for a less happy occasion.”

“Yeah… how’s she doing?”

“Not too well. I saw her a few days ago, and I think it will be soon.”

“That’s really sad.” He asked me, “So, how are you doing back in New York?”

“Terrific. Good to be back.”

“How’s the weather there?”

“Perfect.” It didn’t seem to occur to Edward that there was anything unusual about his mother and me calling him together, and he seemed to have forgotten that it was about something important. Edward actually has a genius IQ, though most people wouldn’t guess that, and he’s been a little spacey since I can remember, so I couldn’t blame that on California, much as I’d like to.

I could see that Susan was getting a bit impatient, so I said to Edward, “Well, Skipper, you’re probably wondering why we called.”

“Yeah… is everything okay?”

Susan put the phone on speaker and said, “I’m on the line, sweetheart. Your father and I have some very good news.”

“Great.”

I guess it was my turn to speak, so I said in a happy tone, “Your mother and I are getting married.”

“Huh?”

“Married. Again. Remarried.”

There was a silence, then Edward asked, “You mean…? To each other?”

Susan chirped in, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Oh… yeah. Wow. Awesome.” Then I think he got it, and said, “Oh, wow.” He expounded on that. “Hey, are you kidding?”

Susan and I replied in unison, “No,” and Susan said to him, “We called Cari and she’s just thrilled. She’ll call you tonight.”

“Great. Hey. I’m…” And then something odd happened, and I could actually hear that he was choking up. I had a little lump in my throat, too, and I saw that Susan had tears in her eyes.

I said to him, “We’re going to let you get going, Skipper. Have fun at the beach. See you soon.”

“Yeah… see you…”

Susan was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and suggested to Edward, “Don’t make too many plans for when you get in. This is family time. We’re having dinner together.”

“Yeah? Oh. Okay. Sure. Good.”

Susan continued her briefing. “I’ll call and e-mail you as soon as we know something. You need to take the first available flight to New York. It doesn’t have to be direct or nonstop. And don’t forget to ask about first or business class if coach is sold out. Edward? Are you listening?”

Edward had actually stopped listening about ten years ago, but he replied, “Okay, Mom.”

“I love you.”

“You, too.”

I said, “Love you.”

Susan hung up and said to me, “They were absolutely thrilled. They really were, John. Could you tell?”

“I could.”

Susan dabbed her eyes again and said, “We have a lot of time to make up for as a family.”

“We do, and I have a lot of catching up to do with them, but this will all be very positive now.”

“It will be.” She thought a moment, then said, “Edward still needs a good, strong male figure in his life. He’s… immature.”

I didn’t think so, and I should have let it drop, but my sarcastic side said, “He’s twenty-seven years old. He can be his own male role model.”

She seemed a little annoyed, then embarrassed, and reminded me, “You know how Edward is.”

“Yes, he’s like me.”

“You’re slightly more organized. And I emphasize slightly.”

Susan had actually been one of the most scatterbrained women I’d ever known, but apparently she’d become more organized since I left. Or at least less scatterbrained.

The problem was, we’d both changed, but the memories had not, or the memories had changed, and we had not. It was going to take a lot of work for both of us to see each other as we were now, not as we were then.

On a more optimistic note, Susan felt so immediately comfortable with me that she didn’t hesitate to point out my flaws and make constructive criticisms when necessary. That was a very short courtship.

She obviously sensed what I was thinking, or she was following up on her last comment, and she informed me, “I love you anyway. I love your boyish charm, your sarcastic wit, your very annoying habits, and even your stubborn, unforgiving nature. I love you unconditionally, and I always have. And I’ll even tell you why – you tell the truth, and you have character, which I don’t see too much of these days, and you have guts, John.” She added, “I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”

I hardly knew what to say, but I could have followed her lead and replied, “You’re spoiled, totally out of touch with reality, slightly bitchy, passive-aggressive, and crazy, but I love you anyway.” That was the truth, but I was afraid it might not come out right, so I said, “Thank you.” I took her in my arms and said, “I love you unconditionally. I always have, and I always will.”

“I know.” She put her head on my shoulder and said, “This is like a dream.”

I could feel her tears on my neck, and we held on to each other.

I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was thinking of dinner with Anthony Bellarosa.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Susan had taken on the formidable task of perfecting me before remarrying me. One of my imperfections was my pale skin, which she’d remarked on in the bedroom, and I agreed that I needed a little color. So we moved two chaise lounges into the sunlight on the patio, took off our clothes, and lay side by side holding hands, I in my boxer briefs and Susan in her bikini panties. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a classical station, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, led by Sir Georg Solti, was playing the Flying Dutchman Overture.

The sun felt good on my skin, which hadn’t seen much sun in London for seven years.

On the side table between us was a liter of San Pellegrino, which reminded me of the first time I’d had this sparkling water, with Susan, on our first visit to the Bellarosa house. The second time was a celebratory lunch with Frank Bellarosa at Giulio’s in Little Italy, after our court appearance at which I’d gotten Frank sprung on bail. Perhaps my last bottle of Pellegrino water was also at Giulio’s, some months later. This was a social occasion with our wives, and by that time I was more familiar with Italian cuisine, and I was also fairly certain that my wife, lying now beside me, was having an affair with our host, who was practically ignoring her and being very solicitous of me. What more proof did I need?

So, on that occasion, I was not in the jolliest of moods – I mean, as a lawyer, I’m supposed to screw the client; the client is not supposed to screw my wife – and thinking back on it, I should have said to Anna Bellarosa, as she was eating her cannoli, “Your husband here is fucking my wife.”

And Anna would have turned to Susan and said, “Susan, I have to… but you…?”

Just kidding. In any case, I’ve often wondered how the evening would have turned out if I had confronted them in Giulio’s. Would Frank and I have gone out to the street to see if his limousine was waiting for us? Probably not. I’m certain I’d have been looking for a taxi to take me to the Long Island Railroad station, alone. And would my abrupt departure have thrown off the timing of the planned hit? I don’t know, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been standing next to Frank when he took two shotgun blasts in his Kevlar vest, and I wouldn’t have been there to stop him from bleeding to death, and he wouldn’t have lived so that Susan could kill him later.

If we are being stalked by Fate, there’s no escape, but even Fate has to have a Plan B to allow for human nature, and Kevlar vests.

Susan said to me, “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m enjoying the moment.”

“Talk to me.”

“Okay… you have beautiful breasts.”

“Thank you. Would you like to see my ass?”

I smiled. “Sure.”

She pulled off her panties and turned on her stomach. “How’s that?”

I turned on my side toward her and replied, “Perfect.”

She suggested, “Take off your shorts. Get some sun on that pale butt.”

I slipped off my shorts, turned on my stomach, and we faced each other.

She asked me, “Can you do it again?”

“Turn again?”

“No, John, make love again.”

“Why would you even ask?”

She smiled, reached over, and pinched my butt cheek. I felt a stirring in my loins, as they say, and the chaise cushion didn’t have much give in it, so to avoid a serious injury I flipped again on my back, and Susan exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! Hold it right there.”

She scrambled out of her chaise and positioned herself on top of me with her legs and knees straddling my hips, then lowered herself and I slid right in.

We’d done this here before, on the patio, though I think the chaise lounges were different, and we’d only been caught twice – once by the gardener, who never seemed the same to me again, and once by Judy Remsen, a friend of Susan’s who’d stopped by to deliver a potted plant, which she dropped. Our next dinner date with the Remsens had been interesting.

Susan began a slow, rhythmic up-and-down movement, then increased her tempo. Her body arched back, and her face was lifted toward the sun.

Time, which is relative, seemed to stand still, then speed up, then slowed for a very long second as we both reached orgasm together.

Susan rolled forward and fell on my chest, and I could hear her heavy breathing over my own. She slid her hands and arms under my back and squeezed me tightly as she bit gently into my shoulder. She began gyrating her hips, and within seconds she had another orgasm.

I thought she might go for a hat trick, but she stretched out her legs, put her head on my shoulder, and within a minute she was asleep. I can only imagine what my suntan was going to look like. I, too, was sex-and-sun drowsy, and I drifted off, listening to birds singing and Wagner on the radio.

I had a pleasant dream about lying naked on a sunny beach, and when I awoke, I had this good idea that Susan and I should go to the nude beach in St. Martin where I’d spent a few happy days ten years ago.

But as my head cleared, I rethought that and considered the possible pitfalls of suggesting a trip to a place where I’d been during my self-exile. Especially a nude beach. So maybe Susan and I should travel back to Hilton Head with her parents after Ethel’s funeral, and we could begin the process of healing and bonding as a family. The Stanhopes would be delighted that we were together again, and William would grab my shoulders and say, “John, you silly rascal, it’s good to have you back.” And Charlotte would chirp, “My favorite son-in-law is with us again!”

Actually, they were going to have a monumental fit. I gave this subject some deep thought, realizing I needed to discuss this with Susan.

Susan stirred, yawned, stretched, then gave me a peck on the cheek and rolled off. She stood beside the chaise facing into the sunlight with her eyes closed, and she asked me, “Do you remember the time Judy Remsen dropped by?”

“I do.”

She laughed and said, “I felt so bad for her.”

“Don’t feel too bad. She rushed off to call everyone she knew.” I sat up, drank some Pellegrino water, and watched Susan standing naked in the sunlight.

She said to me, “Stand here, facing me, and we’ll do stretching exercises.”

“I’m sorry. I pulled my groin. You go ahead.”

“John, you need to stay in shape.”

“I run.”

“You need to stretch and work your muscles.” She informed me, “There’s a new Pilates studio in Locust Valley.”

“A what?”

She explained, but I didn’t get it.

Susan began a series of stretching and bending exercises, and it was so sexy that I asked, “When does this class start?”

“Anytime you’re ready.”

She continued her gyrations, and I asked, “Is everyone naked?”

“No, John.”

“Oh…”

Susan slipped on her panties, spread her beach towel on the patio, then lay on her back and began doing floor exercises that didn’t seem humanly possible.

I glanced at the sun and guessed it was close to 3:00 P.M. I said to her, “Susan, I need to speak to you about a few matters.”

Without interrupting her routine, she replied, “Later. Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “I’d like you to move your things here this afternoon. I’ll help you.”

I reminded her, “Your parents will be staying here.”

“Oh… we’ll work it out.”

I pulled on my shorts, stood, and said, “Let’s go inside.”

She stopped her leg lifts, sat up, looked at me, and asked, “What else do you need to speak to me about?” She pointed out, “We’ve discussed what needed to be discussed.”

I gathered my clothes and replied, “Some logistical things.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then stood and gathered her clothes, and we went inside. As we got dressed in the kitchen, she suggested, “Let’s sit in my office.”

It used to be my den and home office, so I knew the way, and we went into the big front room where I’d seen her through the window a few days ago.

I expected to see that my masculine décor – leather, brass, mahogany, and hunting prints – had been replaced with something softer, but the furnishings and their arrangement looked the same as when I’d left ten years ago, and the only thing missing, aside from me, was some Army memorabilia. I noticed that she even had a framed photograph of my parents on a bookshelf.

Susan commented first. “I kept everything, except what you took.”

I didn’t reply.

She moved to the small bar and announced, “It’s time for a drink.”

“I’ll stick to vodka.”

She poured me a vodka with ice from the bar refrigerator and made herself a vodka and tonic.

We sat together on the leather couch, and Susan put her bare feet on the coffee table. As I’d learned from many years of law practice, I should make my points in ascending order of importance, starting with the least important, which was her parents. Also, start with a question. I asked, “How do you think your parents are going to react to our good news?”

She answered, without hesitation, “They’re going to have a shit fit.”

I smiled at the unexpected profanity, but to show this was a serious subject, I asked, “And how are you going to react to their shit fit?”

She shrugged, then replied, “It’s my life.”

“But it’s their money.”

“I have money of my own.” She added, “But not that much after I overpaid for this house.”

“All right. So-”

“And that’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“The answer is, I’m broke.”

She waved her hand in dismissal and informed me, “Oh, I guessed that. But you can earn a good living and you’re good in bed.”

I smiled and said, “All right, but-”

“No, what I wanted to tell you is, I don’t want us to have a prenuptial agreement this time.”

That was a bit of a shock, but she explained, “My only real assets are this house, and the house in Hilton Head, both of which are mortgage-free, and I want you to own half of both of them – and pay most of the bills.”

I replied, “That’s very generous, but-”

She continued, “As you’ve already figured out, when we announce our remarriage, my parents will threaten to cut me out of their will, and end their financial support.”

I saw that she’d thought about this in the last few hours, or maybe the last few weeks, or years. Apparently, while I was wondering if we could establish some civility toward each other, she was thinking about how much a remarriage to John Sutter was going to cost her. I was very touched that she decided that I was worth more than her parents’ money. Nevertheless, what was abstract and noble now was going to be a hard reality for her in a few days when she called Mom and Pop. I said to her, “They are not going to threaten to cut off your allowance and disinherit you. They will. In a heartbeat.”

Again, she shrugged and replied, “You, Mr. Sutter, are my last chance at happiness. And my happiness is all that counts.” She smiled and added, “Well, yours, too.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say something nice.”

“I’ll say something realistic, and that’s the nicest thing I can say to you – life is not easy without money.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s the point, Susan.”

“Are you trying to worm your way out of this marriage just because I’m down to my last few million dollars?”

I forced a smile and joked, “Don’t forget your dowry and the big wedding gift from your parents.”

She replied, “You can be sure they’ll offer me five million not to marry you.”

I stayed silent for a while, sipping my drink. Finally, I said, “All right… we could do very well on what you have left, stay in this house if you’d like, maybe keep the house in Hilton Head, and I can certainly earn a good living.” Which was true, even if I didn’t work for Murder, Inc., and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be doing that after this turn of events in my love life.

Susan, picking up on my last statement, reminded me, “You have a job offer.”

“I do… and we’ll get to that shortly. But, money aside, have you considered the emotional cost of an estrangement from your parents?”

“They’ll get over it.” She added, “But I want you to promise not to throw fuel on the fire.”

I considered that and replied, “I’ll certainly let them know that I’m a very different man than the person they knew ten years ago.”

Susan observed, “You’re not. But you can say you are.” She reminded me, “You called my father a fuckhead.”

“No, I didn’t. I called him a-”

“I don’t need to hear that again.” She looked at me and said, “He probably deserved all that, but if you love me, you’ll apologize to him.”

“All right. I love you, so I’ll apologize.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m very glad to hear that they’ve mellowed.”

She informed me, “Actually, they haven’t. I lied about that.” She smiled and winked.

I smiled, too, and admitted, “I didn’t believe you.”

She got serious and said, “We’ll do the best we can, John. It’s not going to be easy, but I promise you this – this time, I will always put you ahead of my parents.”

That was the first admission I’d ever heard from her that she’d had her priorities reversed when we were married. I understand the power of money, especially when it’s in the hands of people like William and Charlotte Stanhope, but ultimately, if you confront that sort of bullying and manipulation, everyone will benefit, even people like those two. I said, with far more optimism than I felt, “Well, we may be surprised at how they react when we tell them.”

“We? I’m not telling them. You are.” She laughed.

I smiled and said, “I will ask your father for your hand in marriage, as I did the last time.”

“That’s very nice. And don’t forget to tell them that you insisted we not have a prenup.” She suggested, “Bring a video camera. I want to see their reaction.”

Clearly, Susan was at some point in her life and her emotional development that was causing a belated rebellion against parental authority. This was a few decades late, but I could see that the rebellion was complete in her mind; all she had to do now was follow through.

I thought, too, of her marrying her father’s older friend, Dan Hannon, and it didn’t take too much analysis to figure out that that was an arranged marriage, and she’d gone through with it to please Daddy. Now she was going to show Daddy a thing or two. I had no doubt she loved me, and that she’d give up her parents and their money for me, but this was also a little bit of payback for Dad.

Susan had some good news for me. “I don’t want to sound cold, but they don’t have many years left.”

I let that alone and raised a related topic. I said to her, “I’m also wondering if our remarriage will affect the children’s trusts or their inheritance.”

Susan seemed surprised and replied without enough thought, “They would never do that to their grandchildren.”

I didn’t respond, and I wanted to believe that, but I knew the Stanhopes well enough to answer my own question; William, at least, was so vindictive that if he had a family crest, it would say, “I will cut off my nose to spite my face,” and emblazoned on the crest would be the profile of a man without a nose.

Susan reminded me, “The children’s money is in trust.”

I didn’t want to upset her, so I said, “That’s true.” But I’d seen the trust documents, and without getting into legalities, I knew that what Grandpa giveth, Grandpa could taketh away. In addition, her useless brother, Peter, was the trust administrator, and William, through Peter, could manipulate the trusts, and basically stop the monthly payments to the children, plus, he’d make sure that Edward and Carolyn didn’t see a nickel of the principle until they were fifty. And of course, he could disinherit his grandchildren anytime.

I really felt duty-bound to tell her all this because even if she was prepared to give up her inheritance and allowance, she wasn’t prepared to do that to Edward and Carolyn. If it came down to that, then maybe John Sutter would have to go. And I would understand that.

In the meantime, I’d hope that William loved his grandchildren enough that he would not punish them because of the sins of his daughter, so I said, “All right, but you do understand that you, Susan, may lose your allowance, and you could be disinherited from an estate worth millions of dollars?”

“Yes, John, I understand that.”

I asked, not altogether jokingly, “And you still want to marry me?”

She replied, “Not anymore. You cost too much.”

I assumed she was being funny, so I said, “Be serious.”

“I can’t believe you would ask me that question.”

“I apologize.”

“But wait… tell me again what’s in this for me?”

“Just me.”

“That’s it? Prince Charming with no job and no money?”

“I have a law degree.”

“Can I see it?”

We both smiled, sat back, and sipped our drinks. Okay, if that had gone any differently, I’d have been surprised. Susan Stanhope Sutter was in love and wanted me back, and whatever Susan wants, Susan gets. I was in love, too, and had never stopped loving her, so this should work, theoretically.

Susan crossed her legs, stared out the window, and said as if to herself, “Love conquers all.”

“Right.” As Virgil said it, omnia vincit amor, which reminded me of my next subject, if I needed reminding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

With the Stanhope family issues out of the way, or at least out in the open, I was now ready to discuss with Susan the subject of Anthony Bellarosa, past, present, and future. But Susan wanted to take a stroll to the gatehouse, perhaps to see if there were panties on the floor, so we walked down the long drive from the guest cottage to my temporary quarters.

When I had walked up this drive, six hours earlier, my life was in limbo, and my future plans were uncertain; now… well, now I was engaged to be married.

Susan said to me, “When I grew up here, I never would have imagined that this estate would be sold and divided, surrounded by subdivisions, and I’d be living alone in the guest cottage.” She added to that, “I never really forgave my father for putting the estate up for sale.”

William didn’t really need to sell Stanhope Hall, but the upkeep and taxes cost more than I made in a year and more than he wanted to spend to preserve the family estate for his heirs and their progeny. He couldn’t take it with him, but he hated spending it before he left. So he moved to Hilton Head and eventually found a buyer in the person of Mr. Frank Bellarosa, whom I’m certain was influenced in his decision to own a second estate by the lady walking beside me.

Now Stanhope Hall – minus Susan’s ten-acre enclave and the developed back sixty acres where Susan used to ride – was in the hands of Mr. Amir Nasim, a man who was not in the Social Register, but who might be on the mullah’s hit list. And Alhambra was subdivided, and its former owner, Frank Bellarosa, was dead. A lot of these changes, if you thought about it, were a result of the actions of Susan Stanhope Sutter, who didn’t like change.

In any case, we need to live in the world as it is, not as it was. But first, we all needed to tidy up the past a bit.

Susan, however, was momentarily in the present, and she asked me, “Am I going to find something in the gatehouse that I don’t want to see?”

“Well… did I tell you that I wear silk bikini shorts?”

“Very funny.” She picked up the pace and said, “I’ll bet you never thought you’d be walking me to the gatehouse when you called on me this morning.”

“No, I didn’t.” But the house held no incriminating evidence – only exculpatory evidence – and more importantly, I had a clear conscience.

We reached the gatehouse, and Susan said to me, “You have no idea how upset I was when I saw Elizabeth Allard’s car here all day and all night.”

I thought, by now, I did have some idea, but I said, “Not everything is as it seems.”

“We’re about to find out.”

She preceded me into the gatehouse, and in the foyer she saw the Allards’ personal property that Elizabeth and I had stacked there. Susan commented, “I see you did something other than drink.”

“There was a lot of work to do here.”

“What did you do for dinner?”

“Cheese and crackers.”

She moved into the sitting room and saw my pillow and blanket on the couch, which I was happy I’d left there. But Susan didn’t comment on this evidence that I’d slept alone, so I did. “See?”

She ignored me and looked around the room, then asked, “Does Elizabeth want this old stuff?”

“I don’t know, but I inventoried everything, and she signed for it.”

We moved into the dining room, where the table and floor were still stacked with storage and file boxes. She asked, “What is all this?”

I replied, “Mostly the contents of my law office and my former home office, which I stored here when I left.”

“You can have your old home office back.”

“That is very generous of you.”

“What were you going to do with all this?”

I was going to store it in Elizabeth Allard’s house, but I replied, “Public storage.” I added, “But you’ve solved my storage problem.” I further added, “And my housing problem. And all my other problems.”

She agreed, “I have.” She advised me, “After you resign from your job, you’ll need to get rid of your London flat.”

“Of course, darling. I’ll fly to London right after Ethel’s funeral.”

“And get rid of your London girlfriend. Before you go there.”

“I will, sweetheart.” Unless she flies in unexpectedly before then. I needed to make that phone call soon.

Susan announced, “I’ll fly to London with you.”

“Great. We’ll stay at the Berkeley.”

“We’ll stay in your flat.”

I was afraid of that. I keep a nice, neat place for a bachelor, and Samantha doesn’t have a key, but there might be a few things in the flat, including some of Samantha’s odds and ends, which would annoy Susan.

She had raised the subject of personal space and privacy, so I said, “Before I move in with you, I’ll give you all the time you need to clear out anything that you don’t want me to-”

“You can and will move in this afternoon, and you can snoop all you want. I have nothing to hide from you.” She rethought that and said, “Well, maybe I need an hour.”

I smiled and said, “That’s all I need in London.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes while I wait in the taxi.”

I had visions of stuffing a pillowcase with letters, Rolodex cards, interesting photos from my three-year sail, and Samantha’s underwear – the equivalent of an embassy burn-bag, frantically being filled as the rioting mob broke through the compound gates. But I couldn’t burn it, so I’d have to drop it out the window and hope for the best.

“John?”

I replied, “Deal.”

I sensed that I was losing some control of the agenda, and my life. Susan had been far from a jealous or controlling woman, except, as I recalled, in the early days of our courtship and marriage. So this was just a phase. It would pass.

She looked around the room and noticed that the photo portrait of Ethel and George was not hanging above the fireplace, and she said, “It’s hard to believe… they were here before I was born.”

I replied, “You know, Susan, this estate was one of the last that had been in the same family from the beginning, and there aren’t that many left, so if you think about it, that era had ended even before you were born.” I added, “We were all on borrowed time here.”

She thought about that, nodded, and said, “Nostalgia is not what it used to be.”

Susan moved through the dining room into the kitchen and looked around, commenting, “When I was a little girl, George would drive me here after school, and Ethel would give me fresh-baked cookies and hot chocolate.”

I was sure she didn’t get that at Stanhope Hall, but if she did, it wasn’t her mother who baked the cookies, made the chocolate, or even served it to her. Susan, from what I could gather from Ethel, George, and the servants who were still here when I came on the scene, had been the classic lonely little rich girl. Her parents, I suspect, took not much interest in her until her debutante party, at which time they probably began thinking about a suitable education, and a suitable marriage – they screwed up there – and also began thinking about how their daughter’s social success, or lack thereof, would reflect on them.

I suppose I could be more charitable about how I thought of William and Charlotte, and I could blame some of their many faults and failures on their own upbringing – but I’ve known a lot of the old gentry, and many of them were fine, decent people who loved their children, and were generous with their friends and those less fortunate than themselves. A few were total swine, but if the Four Hundred Families in the Social Register got together to award a prize for the biggest swine, William Stanhope would win the Blue Ribbon, and Charlotte would get an Honorable Mention.

Susan opened the refrigerator and observed, “There’s nothing in here.”

“Less to move.”

Susan suggested, “We should take some photographs before everything is cleaned out.”

“Good idea.”

I glanced at the cuckoo clock, which showed it was 3:30, and I said, “How about tomorrow morning?”

“All right.”

I thought the house tour was over, so I said, “Let’s sit on the patio.”

“Let’s see the second floor.”

I followed her into the foyer and up the stairs. She opened the door to Ethel’s bedroom and entered.

The drapes were pulled, and the room was dark and had a musty smell to it. The doors of the armoire and closet were open, as were the dresser drawers, and most of the clothing was lying on the bare mattress. It was an altogether depressing scene, reminding me of what the priest at Frank Bellarosa’s funeral had said at the grave, quoting from Timothy: We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

Susan did not comment on Ethel’s bedroom, and we left, closing the door.

She glanced into the bathroom, and seeing the piles of towels on the floor asked, “Is the washing machine broken?”

“I don’t know. Where is it?”

“I’ll have my cleaning lady come here and get this place tidied up for Elizabeth tomorrow.”

“That’s very nice.” How could I forget that a cleaning lady came along with my new house and bride?

Susan asked me, “Did she shower here?”

“The cleaning lady?”

“John.”

“I believe so. Yes.”

Susan went into my bedroom, formerly and lately Elizabeth’s bedroom, and looked around without haste. She stared at the bed, then noticed the empty bottle of wine on the nightstand, and focused on the two wineglasses, which I should have gotten rid of. She inquired, “Why are there two glasses here?”

I thought of several replies, including telling Susan about Elizabeth’s imaginary childhood friend who drank wine, but to keep it simple and close to the truth, I said, “Elizabeth wanted to sleep in her old room, so we had a nightcap before she retired.”

“That is so lame.”

I took a deep breath, and, remembering that the truth is the last defense of the trapped, I said, “All right… so, we… had too much wine, and we thought about it, but decided we’d be making a big mistake.”

No reply.

So I went on, “Your name came up, and Elizabeth felt… uncomfortable about, you know, and to tell you the truth, so did I.”

Again, no reply.

You should quit while you’re ahead, but I didn’t know if I was ahead. To play it safe, I concluded, “That is the whole truth.”

“That’s not quite what you told me earlier.”

“Right. Well, now you have the details.” I was a bit annoyed at myself for being so defensive, and remembering, too, that the best defense is a good offense, I pointed out, “I was a free man last night, Susan, and even if I’d slept with her, it would be no business of yours.”

She turned and left the bedroom, then started down the stairs. With Susan, it’s hard to tell if she’s angry, indifferent, or if the trolley has jumped the tracks. Sometimes she needs a few minutes to figure it out herself, so I took the opportunity to tidy up the room.

I heard her call up the stairs, “I’ll be on the patio.”

I gave it another minute, then came down the stairs with the two glasses and the empty wine bottle, which I deposited in the trash under the sink.

I went out to the patio and saw that Susan was walking through the vegetable garden.

I called out to her, “I have to be someplace at four.”

She didn’t reply.

I continued, “But I need to speak to you first.”

She looked at me and asked, “About what?”

“Sit here, Susan. This won’t take long.”

She walked back to the patio and inquired, “Where do you have to be at four?”

“That’s what I want to speak to you about. Have a seat.”

She hesitated, then sat at the table, and I took the chair beside her. I began, “This is going to sound… well, a little unbelievable, but, as I told you-”

“So, you didn’t sleep with her because you were thinking of me?”

Apparently, we hadn’t finished with that subject, so I replied, “That’s correct.” I expanded on this and said, “It didn’t feel right. Especially after I saw you in your car. I can’t explain it, but even without knowing how you felt about me, I just couldn’t do anything like that before I spoke to you.”

I thought that should put this to rest, but women examine these things on levels that men don’t even think about, and Susan said to me, “So, you were attracted to her?”

“Not at all.” I explained to her, “Men don’t need a reason – they just need a place.”

“Believe me, I understand that. But she is obviously attracted to you.”

“Everyone is.”

“You’re a total idiot.”

“I know that. Can we-?”

“Well, maybe she was so drunk that you looked good to her.”

“I’m sure of that. So-”

“I thought she was my friend.”

“She is, Susan. That’s why she-”

“And I suppose she was feeling very lonely and needy with her mother dying.”

“Exactly.”

I waited for further analysis, but Susan took my hand and said, “All right. Subject closed.”

I doubted that, so I waited a few seconds, then began, “As I told you-”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“I know you were faithful to me all during our marriage, and I wish I could say the same.”

Me, too.

“I just want you to know, John, that he was the only one.”

“I know that.”

“So many women were chasing after you, and I was never jealous. I totally trusted you.”

“I know you did, and you can still trust me.”

“But if you’d had an affair while I was… while we were estranged, I would understand.”

“Good. I mean-”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.” I had a brief fling. “I was too distraught to even think about that.”

“I’m sorry I betrayed your trust.”

“It’s behind us.” A trite but appropriate expression came to mind, and I said, “Today is the first day of the rest of our lives together.”

She smiled, leaned over, kissed me, then sat back and asked, “Did you want to speak to me about something?”

“Yes. And please listen without comment.” I began, again, “As I told you, Anthony Bellarosa stopped by here last Monday.” I gave her a very brief outline of the visit, mentioning again Anthony’s inquiry about her, and Susan listened without comment. I concluded with, “He asked me to have dinner with him.”

“And did you?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Except that I was concerned about you.”

She didn’t reply, so I continued, “And I suppose I had a perverse curiosity-”

“I understand. Go on.”

“All right. So I met him at Wong Lee’s in Glen Cove.” I couldn’t help myself from saying, “I thought it best to avoid an Italian restaurant, considering what happened… well, anyway, Anthony is not as charming as his father, or as bright, but-”

“John, I really don’t want to hear anything about his father. Good or bad. Just tell me what happened with Anthony.”

“All right.” I mentioned Tony, the driver, who inquired about her, then I related the pertinent parts of the dinner conversation with Anthony Bellarosa, and I briefly mentioned my phone conversation with Anna Bellarosa. I concluded with, “I got up and left.”

Susan thought about all that and said, “I hope this isn’t the job offer you mentioned.”

“Well… let me continue.” I told her about my chance meeting with Tony and Anthony on Grace Lane, and how I went for a one-way ride to Oyster Bay. I gave her an idea of what was said in Teddy Roosevelt’s former office, trying to make her understand not only what was said, but also what was not said about her. I mentioned, too, the black Cadillac Escalade, and suggested she keep an eye out for it. I downplayed a lot of what was discussed, and what I thought, because I didn’t want to alarm her; but neither did I want her to think this was something that would go away by itself, or that she should treat the situation with her usual indifference. I finished by saying, “So we sort of left this job offer up in the air.”

She looked at me and replied, “It doesn’t sound that way to me.” She asked me, “Are you crazy?”

“Susan, you need to understand-”

“I do understand, John. You believe that you’re considering this so-called job offer to try to protect me, but-”

“Why else would I even be speaking to this man?”

“You should ask yourself that question, not me.”

“Susan, let’s not get into amateur analysis. If I didn’t think that Anthony Bellarosa was looking for revenge for what happened… all right, I may have also thought that I could work for him in a legitimate capacity-”

“He’s a Mafia don.”

“I don’t know that.”

“John, you know that. And I’ll tell you something else you know. He appealed to your ego, and you were flattered. And he sensed, too, that you were vulnerable to his advances because of what happened in the past, and because you were not completely satisfied with your life. You are not going to repeat that mistake-”

“Hold on. Do I have to remind you who encouraged that relationship with you-know-who, and why you encouraged it?”

“Stop it!” She took a deep breath, then got herself under control and said, “You don’t have to remind me. I should remind myself.”

Neither of us spoke for a while, then she said, “He may be brighter than you give him credit for.”

“I know that.”

“But you’re much brighter than that.”

“I know that, too.”

“So what are you going to do, John?”

I thought about that and replied, “Well, my situation has obviously changed.” I forced a smile and said, “I’m in love and engaged to be married, as of a few hours ago, so I don’t have any need to be flattered by anyone else, and all my ego needs have been met, and I’m no longer vulnerable to the temptations of the devil.”

Susan looked at me again and said, “Tell the devil to go to hell.”

“I will… but I’m still concerned about you.”

“Don’t be.” She took my hand again and said, “I am so touched that you were thinking about protecting me when you hated me.”

“I never hated you. I loved you.”

“I see that.” She found a tissue in her pocket, dabbed her eyes, and said, “I do see that.”

We sat quietly for a while, then Susan asked me, “Do you have any plans to see or speak to him again?”

I glanced at my watch and replied, “Yes, in about five minutes.”

“Where?”

“At his house. I’m invited for Sunday dinner.”

“Don’t go.”

“My instincts say to go. And you need to trust me on this.”

She stayed silent for some time, then asked, “What is the purpose of going?”

I replied, “I feel if I don’t go, I might miss a last opportunity to learn something… to get a better understanding of the man, and of his thinking about… well, you.” I explained, “If I can get him to make a threatening remark, then when I go to the police, I’m sure they’ll take it seriously because of what Anthony Bellarosa has said, and also because of what happened ten years ago.”

Susan stayed silent a long time, then said, “If I had that moment to live over again, I would not pull the trigger.”

Three times, actually. And that reminded me to ask, “Do you own a gun?”

She looked at me and replied, “I did skeet and duck shooting in Hilton Head. I have a shotgun.”

I was happy to hear that she owned and knew how to use a shotgun, but recalling Emily Post’s advice on the subject of guns, and considering that I was about to move in with her… but, well, I’d take her at her word that she regretted her moment of explosive rage against her lover, and I would also assume that she’d developed better coping skills when angry. I asked, “Where do you keep the shotgun?”

“I don’t know… I think it’s in the basement.”

“You need to look for it.” I stood and said, “I should be going.”

She stood and asked me, “Who will be there?”

“Anthony, of course, his wife, Megan, probably their two children, and I suppose, Anna. I don’t know who else.”

“All right… I’ll trust your judgment on this.”

We walked back into the kitchen, and I said to her, “I’m not actually staying for dinner, of course.”

I took my car keys from the key peg, and Susan reminded me, “You should actually bring a hostess gift for his wife.”

There was something almost comical about Susan’s suggestion that I not forget social etiquette, even when dining with a man who quite possibly wanted her dead. Well, in Susan’s world, one thing had nothing to do with the other.

I opened the pantry, but I was out of wine, so I took a jar of Ethel’s crabapple jelly that had her personal label on it with the date it was made. I said, “This is a 1999. It will go well with lasagna.”

Susan had no comment, then said to me, “While you’re gone, I’m going to pack your things and take them to our house.”

“Thank you.” I reminded her, “But I’m moving back here when your parents arrive.”

“It would be nice if we could all stay under the same roof.”

“There isn’t a roof big enough for that.”

“Let’s see how it goes when they arrive.”

I didn’t want to discuss this now, so I said, “Well, ciao.”

“When you leave, tell him, ‘Va al inferno.’”

“I will do that.”

We kissed, and she said, “Good luck.”

I left the gatehouse, got into my car, and headed out through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, turning left onto Grace Lane for the short trip to Alhambra.

My first visit to Alhambra, ten years ago, had been a monumental mistake; this visit was a chance to correct that mistake.

CHAPTER THIRTY

And so, to Sunday dinner at the Bellarosas’.

The distance between the gatehouse of Stanhope Hall and the gatehouse of Alhambra is about a quarter of a mile, and for the first half of that distance Grace Lane is bordered by the gray stone wall of the Stanhope estate, which ends where the Alhambra wall of brick and stucco begins.

The Gold Coast, at the height of its wealth and power, which was the day before the stock market crash of ’29, boasted over two hundred grand estates and an equal number of smaller manor houses and country homes.

A gentleman and his family living in a Fifth Avenue mansion could be here, at his country estate, in an hour, traveling by private railway car, or he could take a leisurely two-hour cruise in his motor yacht. The gentleman also had the option to travel here in his chauffeured limousine via the Vanderbilt Toll Road, which Mr. William K. Vanderbilt Jr. constructed for himself and his friends, and which he allowed others to use for a fee. Those were the good old days, as they say.

Most of the estates are fronted by walls or wrought-iron fences, punctuated by gates and gatehouses, and many of these structures have survived and are reminders of a past that had flourished briefly, but which nonetheless still loomed large in the consciousness of those who now lived here. The problem with living in a place like this, I think, is the physical evidence around us that said maybe there really was a golden age that was better than now.

So to return to Mr. Anthony Bellarosa’s analogies to the fall of the Roman Empire, I’d once read that during the Dark Ages, the last few thousand benighted inhabitants of Rome, awestruck by the magnificent ruins around them, believed that the ancient city must have been built by giants or gods.

I had no such belief here, though I think that archaeologists digging on the Gold Coast a thousand years from now might possibly conclude that stockbrokers and lawyers were barbarian tribes who cooked the landed gentry in something called Weber grills.

And while I was in this mind-set, I recalled, too, the story of the Roman Senate who continued to meet long after the fall of the Empire, and who became, in effect, no more than a tourist attraction for curious citizens and barbarians who wandered down to the Forum to see these living ghosts in their quaint togas.

I was never a full-fledged member of the senatorial class, being more of the equestrian class, but whenever I put on my blue blazer, tan pants, and Docksiders, and go into town with my preppie accent, I sometimes feel I am one of the Gold Coast tourist attractions, along with the walls, and the ruins, and the estates now open to the public. “Look, Mommy, there’s one of them!”

I slowed down as I approached the former gatehouse of Alhambra, which now served as the guard booth for the gated community.

A sign read alhambra estates – private – stop at security.

I turned left into the driveway. The large wrought-iron gates were open, and I saw that a speed bump and a yellow stop line had been added to the cobblestone allée, which was still lined with stately Lombardy poplars.

I drove through the gates, then stopped as instructed at the old gatehouse.

On the door of the house, I could see a small sign that said alhambra estates – sales amp; management. I noticed, too, that a big window had been cut into the side of the gatehouse, and behind the open window appeared a man dressed in a khaki military-style shirt. He greeted me with an insincere smile and asked, “How can I help you?”

A metal sign read bell security service, which I remembered was a division of Anthony Bellarosa’s Bell Enterprises, which conveniently had the contract for Alhambra Estates. So, since I was an F.O.B. – friend of the boss – and not in the best of moods, anyway, I indulged myself in a little petulance and replied, “I don’t know how you can help me. What are my choices?”

“Sir?”

I was briefly nostalgic for Frank Bellarosa’s goons – Lenny and Vinnie, both now deceased, and Anthony, now known as Tony. I said, “I’m here to see” – I was feeling reckless – “don Bellarosa.”

The guard looked at me closely, then informed me, “Mr. Anthony Bellarosa.”

“Right. And his brother, Don.”

He seemed not amused, but since I was apparently a guest of the boss, he played it safe and inquired, “Your name, sir?”

I replied, “John Whitman Sutter.”

Without consulting the list of invitees in his hand, he said, “Right,” then gave me directions and remembered to say, “Have a nice day.”

As I pulled away, I could see in my side-view mirror that the guard was on the phone, calling, I assumed, the Bellarosa house; so there was no turning back now.

I continued up the straight cobblestone drive that had once ended in the courtyard of the villa called Alhambra. But now I could see that the road continued on in blacktop, running over the site where the mansion once stood. Branching off the main road were smaller roads, which ran to the five-acre parcels and the faux villas. Some of the old trees had survived the construction of houses, roads, swimming pools, and underground infrastructure, but mostly the terrain was bare between the newly landscaped houses.

I suppose it could have been worse – but not much worse. I hadn’t been too thrilled when I discovered that Frank the Bishop Bellarosa had bought Alhambra – I mean, we’ve all had bad neighbors, but this was a bit much – though looking back, I realized that one Mafia don and his family was actually better than a hundred over-mortgaged stockbrokers, or whoever these people were.

In any case, it was not my problem. I recalled that a good deal of my time here had been spent engaged in cocktail-party and country-club chatter about how our world was changing around us, and I’d belonged to too many committees that were involved in legal actions to hold the line against the developers – in essence, trying to freeze some moment in time that had already passed. I’m sure they were still at it.

I stopped the car at the place where the old cobblestone and the poplars ended and the blacktop began. Here Alhambra had stood, and I got out of the car and looked around. This was the highest point of land, and from here I could see a dozen mini-villas sitting on their manicured acres with their three-car garages and their driveways and patios. There was a lot of barbecuing going on, and blue smoke rose into the cloudless sky, like the campfires of a bivouacked army. Other than that, there didn’t seem to be much human activity on God’s little five-acre parcels.

Beyond the acres of what had been Alhambra, I could see the golf course of The Creek Club, and I recalled that after Susan and I had taken Mr. and Mrs. Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner, Mr. Bellarosa had asked me to sponsor him for membership. Well, that’s always a problem when you take a marginal couple to the club for dinner; the next thing you know, they want you to get them in. I was fairly certain that the club membership committee would not approve of the application of a Mafia don, so, without wasting too much tact, I explained to Frank that even Jesus Christ, who was half Jewish on his mother’s side, couldn’t get into The Creek.

I have to admit, at least to myself, that despite all that happened that spring, summer, and fall, and despite the tragic end of a life and a marriage, I did have some fun with all this – which, I suppose, is like Mrs. Lincoln answering the question of, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?” with the honest reply, “It was a funny comedy, and I was laughing until the shot rang out.”

I looked to where the reflecting pool and the classical Roman garden had once been, but the landscape was so different now that I couldn’t be sure exactly where it was, though I thought it may have sat in a low piece of land where a house now stood.

The disturbing images from my dream took form in my mind, but I didn’t want to see them any longer, so I wished them away and they were gone.

I looked back down the long sloping allée toward the gatehouse and the road. On the other side of Grace Lane was a big colonial-style house set back about a hundred yards on a hill. This house was owned by the DePauws, though I didn’t know if they were still there. But ten years ago the FBI had used their property as an observation post to see and photograph anyone coming and going at Alhambra.

On the night of the failed hit outside of Giulio’s restaurant in Little Italy, I’d been escorted to the police station at Midtown South, where I had the opportunity to see many of these photos taken with a telescopic lens, and the police and the FBI asked me to try to identify if any of Frank Bellarosa’s photographed visitors were the same two men that I’d seen outside of Giulio’s.

Among the photographs of Mr. Bellarosa’s friends, family, and business associates were a few nice shots of Susan and me on the occasion of our first visit to the Bellarosas’ for coffee and cannolis. It occurred to me then that the FBI knew, long before I did, that Susan and Frank were going at it. I now wondered if the FBI already knew that Anthony Bellarosa and I were on our fourth tête-à-tête. I also wondered what had happened to Special Agent Felix Mancuso who’d tried so earnestly to save me from myself. Maybe I needed to call him.

I got back into my car and proceeded to a small road on the left called Pine Lane, which led me into a large cul-de-sac where three stucco villas with red-tiled roofs stood a hundred yards apart.

I realized that I was now close to the property line of Stanhope Hall, and in fact, I could see, behind the three villas, the line of towering white pines that separated the two estates. So, as the crow flies, or as the horse trots, Susan’s guest cottage and Anthony’s villa were only about five hundred yards apart.

The three villas on the cul-de-sac were slightly different in style and color, and the security guard said it was the yellow house, so I steered toward the last house on the left and stopped in front of the neat lawn of Casa Bellarosa. I got out, remembering the crabapple jelly.

The wide driveway held the black Cadillac Escalade and a white minivan, which I assumed belonged to Megan Bellarosa, and a yellow Corvette, which I guessed was Anthony’s getaway car. Above the garage doors was a basketball hoop mounted on a backboard.

I noticed, too, parked in front of me, a standard black Mafioso-model Cadillac with tinted windows.

I walked up the driveway and turned onto a concrete path that took me to the front portico.

I checked my watch, and saw it was 4:15. I was late, but not fashionably so.

I noticed there was a security camera above the door, so I smiled for the camera and rang the bell.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Bellarosa had been notified by Bell Security that I was on my way, and he’d also seen me on his security monitor, so he didn’t feign any surprise when he opened the door and greeted me by saying, “Hey, glad you could make it. Come on in.”

Anthony was wearing a shiny black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and the shirt was tucked into a pair of charcoal gray pleated pants held up by a pencil-thin belt. His loafers, I noticed, were made of some sort of reptilian leather. I didn’t think anyone from the New York Times Style section would be calling soon.

Anyway, I said, “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Yeah. And you’re not gonna run off this time.”

Wanna bet?

I thought, out of habit, he was going to ask me if I wanted to check my gun, but instead, he asked, “Any problem at the guard booth?”

I assumed the guard had ratted me out about the don Bellarosa thing, and Anthony wanted me to know he wasn’t amused. I replied, “He seemed hard of hearing.”

“Yeah? Hard to get good help.”

And speaking of hard of hearing, an Italian male vocalist was belting out a lively song, which was booming out of the wall speakers, and Anthony announced my arrival by shouting over the music, “Hey, Megan! We got company!”

Anthony went to a control panel on the wall, turned down the music, and said to me, “Great album. It’s called Mob Hits.” He laughed. “Get it?”

I smiled.

While we waited for Megan, and while Anthony played with the bass and treble knobs, I looked around the big foyer and into the living and dining rooms. To be honest, it wasn’t all that bad. I’d expected an ornate Italian version of Mr. Nasim’s horrid faux French, but Megan, and probably a decorator, had played it safe with Chairman-of-the-Board contemporary in muted tones. There were, however, a lot of paint-by-number oils of sunny Italy on the walls, and I spotted two crucifixes.

Megan Bellarosa entered the foyer, and I was pleasantly surprised. She was in her late twenties, tall and thin, and she had a pretty freckled Irish face and blue eyes. Also, she had what looked like natural red hair, so from personal experience I knew she was either bitchy, high-strung, or just plain crazy.

She gave me a sort of tentative smile, wondering, I’m sure, what the hell her husband was thinking when he invited me to a family dinner. I said to her, “It was very nice of you to invite me.”

She replied, “I’m glad you could make it. We have lots of food,” which removed any concern I may have had about eating the last of the family rations. She asked, “Can I take your coat?”

I didn’t have a coat – only a blue blazer – and I don’t part with it very easily, so I said, “I’ll just wear it.” I remembered to say, “You have a beautiful home.”

She replied, “Thanks. Anthony can show you around later.”

Her accent was distinctly low-class, as was her pink polyester tunic and her black polyester stretch pants. Considering, though, her good features, Professor Higgins could do wonders with her.

I handed her the jar of crabapple jelly and said, “This is homemade.”

She took the jar, looked at the label, smiled and exclaimed, “Oh, geez – my grandmother used to make this.”

So we were really off to a good start. In fact, Megan gave me a nice big smile, and for a second she reminded me of Susan. The swarthy Bellarosa men, apparently, liked the northern European, fair-skinned type. Dear Sigmund-

Before I could analyze this further, Anthony said, “Hey, my mother is excited to see you. Come on.”

I followed Anthony and Megan through the foyer into a big sunny kitchen, and standing at the center island, cutting cheese on a board, was Anna Bellarosa. She saw me, dropped her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and charged toward me exclaiming, “John! Oh my God!”

I braced myself right before impact, put out my arms, and we collided. BAM! She hugged me tight, and I was able to get my arms around her and managed to wheeze, “Anna… you look great…”

In fact, before impact, I’d seen that she’d put on a few pounds, and I was feeling them now as she squeezed the air out of my lungs. To add to my breathing problem, she was wearing a floral scent that overpowered whatever was cooking.

We unclenched, and I held her hands so she couldn’t get her arms around me again, and I looked at her. Her face was still cherub-like and made more so by too much red lipstick and rouge, but under the paint, her skin looked young. Mediterranean diet?

I caught my breath and said, “It’s so good to-”

She interrupted, “John, you look great. I’m so happy you came.” She went on awhile, asking about my children, but not about my evil seductress man-killing wife, and quizzed me on what I was up to.

Anna used to wear enough jewelry to interfere with radio transmissions, but today all she had on was a pair of gold earrings and her wedding band. Plus, she wore a black pantsuit, to denote her widowed status, and I noticed a gold crucifix nestled in her cleavage, which reminded me now, as it did when we first met, of Christ of the Andes.

Anna went on, and I replied as best I could before she interrupted each reply. I noticed that Megan had left the kitchen, and I recalled that the two Mrs. Bellarosas were not on good culinary terms, or any terms at all.

Finally, Anthony interrupted his mother’s interruptions and said, “Okay, let him catch his breath, Ma. Hey, John, wine, beer, or hard stuff?”

I needed a triple Scotch, but I asked for a white wine.

Anthony opened the refrigerator and retrieved an uncorked bottle of something and poured two wines into cut crystal glasses.

Anna informed me, “John, I made lasagna for you. Anthony said you liked my lasagna.”

“I do.” It had been my favorite from Anna’s takeout kitchen at Alhambra, and Susan, too, liked her lasagna, though I shouldn’t mention that.

Anna continued, “We got hot and cold antipasto, we got stracciatelle, we got a beautiful bronzini that I got in Brooklyn, we got veal-”

“Ma, he doesn’t need-”

“Anthony, sta’ zitto.”

I think that means shut up. I have to remember that.

Anna recited her menu as though reciting the Rosary. I never completely understood why she liked me – except that I’m charming – but when men and women are friends, there’s almost always a sexual element present. Not romantic sex, perhaps, but a sort of Freudian concept of sex that acknowledges the attraction as more than platonic, but not quite rising to the level of “let’s fuck.” With Susan and Frank, however, it was libido from the get-go, and maybe, later, they fell in love. Interestingly, Anna never caught on to this, and she remained very fond of Susan until Susan whacked her dear husband.

Anyway, as far as why Anna liked me, I also knew from what she’d said once that she believed that John Whitman Sutter would be a good influence on Frank, who was being influenced by bad people. That would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. In any case, I’m sure Anna had similar thoughts about her son’s budding friendship with me.

As Anna prattled on, and as Anthony tried to get a word in edgewise, and I made an appropriate sound now and then, I realized that when I informed Anthony that Susan and I were together again, that would put Anthony in an awkward position in regard to Mom, who understandably was no longer so fond of Susan – and that might just end Anthony’s interest in making me his trusted advisor. In fact, I was sure of it.

As I was thinking about this, Anna was thinking that I looked not so great after all, and she pushed a platter of cheese and salami across the counter and informed me, “You look too skinny. Eat.”

Anthony laughed and mimicked Mom. “Mangia! Mangia! You’re too skinny.”

Anna turned her attention to her son and said, “You, too. You’re too skinny, Anthony.”

Anthony laughed again and poured his mother a glass of red wine, saying, “You don’t drink enough vino. Beva, beva.”

Anna ignored the wine, but did sample most of the cheese and salami. Atkins diet?

Anthony and I took some cheese, which to me smelled like the Bay of Naples, but it tasted good. So, if I had my choice between an Italian mother and a WASP mother, I’d pick orphan.

Anna was examining the jar of jelly that Megan had left on the counter, and she asked her son, “What’s this?”

Anthony explained, “John brought it over.”

That seemed to make it okay, but she asked me, apropos of the label, “How’s she doing? The old lady.”

“Not too well.”

Anna seemed to be thinking, then said, “I remember the husband. He used to come over, looking for… your wife.” I didn’t respond, and Anna added, “I don’t remember the old lady too much. But we had a nice chat once.”

“I’ll pass on your regards.”

“Yeah. I hope she gets better.” She asked me, “So, you’re living there?”

“I am.” I was.

I had no doubt that Anna was on the verge of warning me that the killer had returned to the guest cottage, and Anthony, perhaps also sensing that Mom was starting to relive bad memories, said to me, “Hey, let’s go outside. I want to check on the kids.”

Anna instructed him, “Tell them it’s almost time to eat.”

We went through a sliding glass door onto a huge slate patio that was large enough to accommodate an emergency space shuttle landing, and beyond the patio, surrounded by a six-foot-high metal picket fence, was a swimming pool whose dimensions qualified it as an inland sea.

Beyond the pool, I could see a long wire dog run, and tethered to the wire was a big German shepherd, who even at this distance noticed me, stopped pacing, and began pulling at his leash and barking at me. Anthony shouted, “Sta’ zitto!” and the dog, who was apparently bilingual, stopped barking. I walked with Anthony to the pool, and he opened the gate and called out to the two children, who were paddling around with water wings, “Hey, kids! Say hello to Mr. Sutter.”

They looked at me, waved, and said simultaneously, “Hi,” then went back to their paddling.

The boy, I recalled, was Frank, age five, and the girl was Kelly Ann, and she looked a year or so older. They were good-looking kids, and under their tans probably fair-skinned like their mother. They reminded me of Edward and Carolyn when they were that age, enjoying the summer in comfortable surroundings and enjoying the world without a care.

I noticed now a middle-aged lady sitting in a lawn chair under the shade of an umbrella, and she was watching the two children like a hawk. Anthony called to her, “Eva, get the kids ready for dinner!”

Anthony turned and we walked back to the patio, and I thought we were going back inside, but Anthony moved toward a striped pavilion on the patio, and I now noticed a man and a woman sitting there.

We walked into the shade of the pavilion, and Anthony said to me, “You remember my uncle Sal.”

This sort of took me by surprise, and I was momentarily speechless.

Sitting in a cushioned chair, holding a cocktail glass and smoking a cigarette, was none other than Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da. I mean, it’s nice to have family over for dinner, but it could be awkward if the invited family member once tried to have your father killed. Maybe, though, I was being ethnocentric, and I was making too much of that.

Uncle Sal stayed seated, looked at me, and gave a half nod, mumbling, “How ya doin’?”

I replied, “Hangin’ in.”

I thought that our reunion after ten years should have caused him more joy, but he just sat there with his cigarette and cocktail and looked off into space.

The first time I’d seen Sally Da-da was at the Plaza Hotel, where Frank had invited half the Mafia in New York to his suite to celebrate his being sprung on bail. It was more than a celebration, however, it was also a show of force, where the don’s capos and lesser henchmen came to kiss his ring, and where his affiliated partners and even his rivals had come, by command, to witness this great outpouring of support for the capo di tutti capi.

I had been accosted in the room by a man who I classified as Cro-Magnon and who asked me some questions that made little sense to me. I later learned that this man was Salvatore D’Alessio, brother-in-law to don Bellarosa. Much later, I learned that Mr. D’Alessio, who was the don’s underboss, wanted to be capo di tutti capi, so Frank had to go.

Anyway, Mr. D’Alessio, sitting now a few feet from me, was a big, powerfully built man with thick dyed black hair and thick eyebrows that met in the middle, like you see in the Prehistoric Man dioramas at the Museum of Natural History. He could have been wearing an animal skin, and no one would have commented, but he was in fact wearing baggy black dress pants and a white dress shirt half unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing lots of hair. I didn’t think he’d be carrying a gun to a family dinner, but if he was, it might be concealed in his chest hair.

Anthony asked me, “Did you ever meet my aunt Marie?”

I turned my attention to Aunt Marie, who looked like a thinner and older version of her sister Anna. I said to her, “I believe we’ve met.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

In fact, I’d met Marie D’Alessio at Frank Bellarosa’s funeral Mass, and she’d sat next to Anna, and they took turns crying. It was at this funeral Mass where I’d seen Uncle Sal for the second time, then again at graveside where he kept staring at the coffin, avoiding eye contact with young Anthony Bellarosa.

Marie didn’t seem to have anything to say to the ex-husband of Susan Sutter, so I turned my attention back to Uncle Sal, and I noticed now that he was giving me an appraising look. We made eye contact, and he said to me, “Long time.”

I guess that meant “Long time no see,” which actually means “It’s been ages, John, since we’ve seen each other.” I replied, “Long time.”

I understood why Uncle Sal wanted to clip his brother-in-law, but I was annoyed that he’d picked the night I was having dinner with Frank and our wives. Though, as Felix Mancuso explained to me later, Sally Da-da probably knew that Frank Bellarosa would never think anyone would break the strict rule of not whacking someone in the presence of their family or in the company of upstanding citizens, which I guess included John and Susan Sutter. So Salvatore D’Alessio had calendared in “Whack Frank” on the same night that my calendar showed “Dinner with Bellarosas/NYC/limo.” I would have written in the name of the restaurant, Giulio’s, but with Frank, you never knew your exact destination until you got there. Someone else, however, probably Frank’s driver, Lenny the Snake, knew the name of the restaurant and passed it on to Sally Da-da, who couldn’t resist the opportunity.

I looked again at Salvatore D’Alessio, who was still looking at me, and I had to wonder about a man who would arrange to have his brother-in-law killed in front of his own wife’s sister.

Regarding the timing of the whack, Frank Bellarosa never had a day in his life when he wasn’t on his guard, and he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest under his tailored suit, so aside from some broken ribs and a severed carotid artery that was not protected by the Kevlar, he’d survived, with a little help from me.

Anthony broke the silence with some good news and announced, “My aunt and uncle just dropped by to say hello.”

Uncle Sal stood, and I was struck at how huge this guy was. I mean, even if you shaved off all his hair, he was still pretty big. He said, “Yeah. We’re goin’.”

Aunt Marie also stood, and said to her nephew, “Anthony, take care of your mother.”

“I do.”

“You gotta call her.”

“I do.”

“Have her over more. Not just Sundays, Anthony.”

“My brothers come in from Jersey and see her all the time.”

She ignored this and further advised Anthony, “Since your father died” – she glanced at me for some reason – “since he’s been gone, she’s all alone.”

“She’s got fifty cousins and sisters in Brooklyn.”

“They got their own lives.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks, Aunt Marie.”

While this was going on, Uncle Sal just stood there, expressionless, but perhaps thinking that his wife was wasting her time talking to a dead man. Well, I didn’t know that, of course, and certainly Uncle Sal had already had ample time and opportunity to put Anthony on the permanently dead list. So maybe they’d worked out some sort of power-sharing arrangement, like, “Anthony, you get the drugs, prostitution, and loan-sharking, and I take the gambling, extortion, and stealing from the docks and airports.” That’s what I would recommend.

Anthony said to his uncle, “Thanks for stopping by.”

Uncle Sal dropped his cigarette on the patio, stepped on it, and said, “Your mother looks good.”

Anthony glanced at the cigarette butt on his nice slate patio, but he didn’t say anything. So maybe he was thinking, “Why bother? He’s dead anyway.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio somehow managed to have each other whacked?

I hope I didn’t say that out loud, and I guess I didn’t because Uncle Sal turned to me and asked, “So, whaddaya up to?”

“Same old shit.”

“Yeah? Like?”

Anthony interrupted this windy conversation and said, “John’s my tax guy.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Sal looked at me for a long time, as if to say, “Sorry my boys missed you at Giulio’s.” Well, maybe I was imagining that.

Aunt Marie announced, “I’m going in,” but before she left, she reminded Anthony, “Your mother needs you.” She should remind her husband of that, too.

So I stood there with Anthony and Salvatore in manly silence, then I realized I was supposed to leave them alone. But I didn’t want to go back in the kitchen with the women – only faggots would do that – so I said, “I’m going to take a walk.” I addressed Uncle Sal. “Well, great seeing you again.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a card?”

“What?”

“Ciao.” I walked out toward the pool, well out of earshot and gunshot range. I looked at the shimmering pool, then out to where the German shepherd was glaring at me, which for some reason reminded me of Salvatore D’Alessio.

Salvatore D’Alessio – Sally Da-da to his friends, and Uncle Sal to his nephew – was the real thing. I mean, this guy was not playacting the part of a Mafia boss like so many of these characters did. This was one mean and dangerous man. If I had to put money on who would whack whom first, I’d bet on Uncle Sal being at Anthony’s funeral, and not the other way around.

And yet Anthony had the major motivation – personal vendetta – and also he seemed to have more brains, which I know is not saying too much.

Bottom line here was this: Anthony wanted to kill Uncle Sal; Uncle Sal wanted to kill Anthony; Uncle Sal might still be annoyed at me for saving Frank’s life and making him look incompetent; Anthony wanted to kill Susan; I wanted Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio dead.

Who said that Sunday family dinners were boring?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I saw that Uncle Sal had left, and Anthony was now sitting in a chair under the pavilion. I took the chair across from him, and I noticed that the cigarette butt was gone.

Neither of us spoke, but I thought Anthony was going to put me at ease about Uncle Sal by saying something like, “Under all that hair is a big heart,” but he acted as though Uncle Sal hadn’t been there, and commented instead on Aunt Marie, saying, “She’s a ballbuster.”

I wasn’t sure if I needed to respond, but Anthony was still chafing at Aunt Marie’s public lecture, and he wanted me to know what he thought of her. I said, “Well, I think she’s fond of you, and she loves her sister.”

“Yeah. Right.” He informed me, “She’s got two boys. Both in Florida. Nobody ever sees them.”

I thought maybe their father ate them, but Anthony let me know, “They’re fucking beach bums.”

I didn’t respond.

He sat back, smoking, and I could see that Uncle Sal’s visit had put him in a bad mood, so possibly he was thinking about the best way to end these visits forever, which was why he’d thought about Uncle Sal’s wife and sons. His aunt was a ballbuster, and he’d like to make her a widow, like his mother, and his cousins were not a threat if by some chance something happened to their father.

But maybe I was being too clever. Maybe he was thinking about his mother’s lasagna. I said to him, “Your uncle looked good.”

He came out of his thoughts and replied, “Yeah. He uses the same polish on his hair and his shoes.” He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You asked him for his card.”

“I wondered what sort of business he was in.”

Anthony smiled again, then replied, “The family business.” He then assured me, “He didn’t know you were jerking him around.”

That’s good.

Anthony said to me, “You got balls.”

I didn’t reply, but the subject of balls was out there, so Anthony felt he needed to tell me, “I should’ve shoved that cigarette butt up his ass, but every time I get pissed off at him, everybody thinks I’m the bad guy.”

“I think you handled it quite well.” I reminded him, “He is your uncle.”

“Yeah. By marriage. But still, you got to show respect. Right?”

“Right.” Right up until the time you kill him.

“But he’s got to show respect, too.”

“I agree.” I had no doubt that men in Anthony’s world had been killed for far less than throwing a cigarette butt on their host’s patio. It was all about respect, and not embarrassing a goombah in public, but it was also about family ties, the pecking order, and ultimately about the balance of power that needed to be preserved. And maybe that was why neither of these two had made a move on the other yet. Meanwhile, they’d go on pissing each other off until one or the other snapped.

Anthony gave me some good advice and said, “Don’t fuck with him. He can’t take a joke.”

I doubted if Uncle Sal even understood a joke.

Then Anthony said, “I think this is going to be a busy week.”

That seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was apparently a preface to something rather than an offhand remark, so I went along with it and asked, “Why?”

“Well, from what I hear, John Gotti has only a few days left.”

I didn’t respond.

Anthony continued, “There’ll be a three-day wake and a big funeral. You know?”

Again, I didn’t respond.

Anthony went on, “So, I got to be there.” He explained, “I mean, I don’t have any business with him, but I know the family, so you have to show your respect. Even if by being there, some people get the wrong idea.”

Right. Like, the police and the press might mistake you for a mobster.

He looked at me and said, “You went to my father’s funeral. Out of respect.”

I wasn’t sure why I’d gone to his father’s funeral, except maybe I felt some… guilt, I guess, that it was my wife who’d killed him. I didn’t respect Frank Bellarosa, but, I guess, despite all that had happened, I liked him. So I said to Anthony, “I liked your father.” I added, “And your mother.”

He looked at me and nodded, then said, “Afterwards, like years later, I realized what a ballsy move that was. I mean, to go to my father’s funeral when it was your wife who killed him.”

I had no reply to that.

He continued, “I’ll bet you got a lot of shit about that from your friends and family.”

In fact, I hadn’t. And that was because no one was speaking to me after that. My father, however, did comment, “That showed poor judgment, John.” Even my mother, who loves all things multicultural, said, “What were you thinking?” My sister, Emily, had also called me and said, “I saw you on TV at Bellarosa’s funeral. You stood out like a sore thumb, John. We need to get you a black shirt and a white tie.” She’d added, “That took guts.”

Anthony said to me, “You probably got some shit in the press, too.”

I did get a few mentions, but nothing that was really critical or judgmental; mostly the media was happy to report on the irony of the alleged killer’s husband being at the funeral. Well, maybe the media doesn’t understand irony, but they do understand entertainment value.

My good friend Jenny Alvarez had helped set the tone by reporting on TV that “unnamed sources have described John Sutter as a man who puts his professional responsibilities above his personal feelings, and as the attorney of record for Frank Bellarosa, he felt he should be there for his deceased client’s family.”

That was a bit of a stretch, not to mention a contradiction, but Jenny liked me, and when a reporter likes you, they’ll find, or make up, unnamed sources to say nice things about you. If she was a really honest journalist, she’d have added, “In the interests of full disclosure, I need to report that I slept with Mr. Sutter.”

Anthony said to me, “Hey, if you want to go with me, that would be good.”

I felt that one Mafioso funeral in a lifetime was already one too many, so I said to him, “I, too, have a busy week. But thank you.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute as Anthony smoked and stared off at his swimming pool.

I’m not a Mafia buff, but I’m an attorney with a good brain who once worked for Frank Bellarosa, so I started putting some things together, to wit: John Gotti’s death might cause some uncertainty among his business associates, and maybe some opportunities. And if I thought about Anthony and Sally Da-da coexisting in an uneasy truce for all these years, I might conclude that the only way this had been possible was if this truce had been mandated by someone like John Gotti – and he was not long for this world. Therefore, if my deductions were correct, Anthony and his uncle Sal would soon be free to kill each other. And that, perhaps, was why Anthony was in full security mode.

I had another thought that maybe Susan had also been included in this Do-Not-Whack arrangement – the Mafia was all about making money, and avoiding bad press for killing civilians – but maybe after John Gotti’s funeral, Anthony might feel free to deal with Susan.

The other possibility was that I was spending too much time with Anthony, and I was starting to think the way I imagined he and his goombahs thought.

The subject of Gotti’s imminent death seemed to be closed, and dinner hadn’t been announced, so I thought this was the time to give Anthony my good news about Susan and me, but before I could do that, he asked me, “What are your kids doing?”

I had learned, long before the Bellarosas came into my life, to be circumspect with strangers regarding the location and activities of my children. I mean, neither the Sutters nor the Stanhopes were celebrities, like the Bellarosas, but the Stanhopes were rich, and there were people who knew this name. My great hope in this regard was that a kidnapper would snatch William, ask for a million-dollar ransom, and be turned down by Charlotte. Anyway, to answer Anthony’s question, I said, “My son is living on the West Coast, and my daughter is an ADA in Brooklyn.”

This information got his attention, and he said, “Yeah? She works for Joe Hynes?”

The legendary Brooklyn District Attorney is named Charles J. Hynes, but his friends call him Joe. I didn’t think that Mr. Hynes and Mr. Bellarosa were friends, but I was certain they knew each other, professionally. I replied, “She works with the Feds on organized crime murders,” which was not true – but how could I resist saying that?

Anthony thought about this awhile, then looked at me and said, “I never heard of her.”

I replied, innocently, “Why would you?”

“I mean… yeah. Right.” He observed, “There’s not much money in that.”

“It’s not about the money.”

He laughed. “Yeah? I guess if you already have money, then nothing is about the money.”

“You have money. Is that how you think?”

He looked at me, then replied, “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s about the power.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He lit another cigarette and looked out over his five acres and the adjoining properties, and said to me, “This all belonged to my father.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “You’re going to get me compensated for this.”

I was tired of this subject, so again, I didn’t reply. Also, it was now time to tell him that Susan and I were back together, and that I was not going to work for him. I began by asking him, “Why did you tell your uncle that I was doing tax work for you?”

“Because you are.”

“Anthony, we didn’t shake hands on that.”

“You having second thoughts?”

“I’m past second thoughts.”

“You trying to shake me down for more money?”

“The money is fine – the job sucks.”

“How do you know until you try?”

I ignored the question, and asked him again, “Why did you tell your uncle I was working for you?”

He replied, “He thinks you have some power. Some connections. And that’s good for me.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because he’s stupid.”

“I see.” The king hires a sorcerer who has no magical powers, but everyone thinks he does, which is the same thing as far as the king and his enemies are concerned. Maybe I should ask for more money. Or, at least a bulletproof vest in case Sally Da-da wanted me whacked for working for Anthony.

Anthony further informed me, “When you work for me, you don’t need to have anything to do with my uncle.”

“That’s a disappointment.”

Anthony got the sarcasm and chuckled.

I raised a new issue, known as a strawdog, and said, “With my daughter working for the Brooklyn DA, you might not want me working for you.”

“You’re not going to be involved with anything that ever has to do with what your daughter does.”

I had this funny thought of Carolyn working on the case of TheState v. John Sutter. “Sorry, Dad. It’s business, not personal.” I said to Anthony, “Maybe not, but it could be embarrassing to my daughter if the press ever made the connection between me, you, and her.”

“Why?”

“Anthony, you may be shocked to hear this, but some people think you are involved in organized crime.”

He didn’t seem shocked to hear that, and neither did he seem annoyed that I’d brought it up. He said to me, “John, I have five legitimate companies that I own or run. One of them, Bell Security Service, is landing big contracts all over since 9/11. That’s where the money comes from.” He leaned toward me and said, “That’s all you got to know, and that’s all there is to know.” He sat back and said, “I can’t help what my family name is. And if some asshole in the newspaper says anything about me, I’ll sue his ass off.”

This sounded so convincing that I was ready to send a contribution to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League. But before I did that, I should speak to Felix Mancuso about Anthony Bellarosa.

Anthony reached into his pocket and said, “You want a card? Here’s my card.”

I took it and saw it was a business card that said, “Bell Enterprises, Inc.,” and there was an address in the Rego Park section of Queens, and a 718 area code phone number, which is also the borough of Queens.

Anthony said, “See? I’m a legitimate businessman.”

“I see that. The proof is right here.”

He didn’t think that was too funny, but he said, “I wrote my cell and home number on the back.” He added, “Keep that to yourself.”

There was little more to say on this subject, and dinner still hadn’t been announced, so I began, “Anthony…” I have some good news and some bad news. “I want you to know that-”

Kelly Ann ran out of the house and announced, “Dinner in ten minutes-” Then she saw the cigarette in the ashtray and shouted, “Daddy! You’re smoking! You’re going to die!”

Personally, I didn’t think Daddy was going to live long enough to die from smoking, but I didn’t share that with Kelly Ann.

Anthony’s response to being busted was to throw me under the bus by saying, “Mr. Sutter smokes, sweetheart. That’s not Daddy’s cigarette. Right, John?”

“Right.” I reached over and took the cigarette, but Kelly Ann was no dummy and shouted, “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!” Then she turned and ran into the house, and I could hear her shouting, “Mommy! Daddy is smoking!”

Anthony took the cigarette from me, drew on it, then snuffed it out and explained, “Those fucking teachers. They tell them that drugs, alcohol, and smoking are the same thing. They’re fucking up the kids’ heads.”

I didn’t respond, but I did think about poor Anthony, surrounded by controlling, ball-busting females. His mother, his aunt, his wife, his daughter, and maybe even his mistress. It was a wonder he hadn’t turned gay. More importantly, he seemed to have little control over his domestic life, unlike his father who was the undisputed padrone of Alhambra. Plus, Anthony didn’t have the testicoli to tell his six-year-old daughter to sta’ zitto. Well, that’s my observation, and about half of my Italian. My other thought was that maybe he was a lightweight, and I shouldn’t worry too much about Susan.

I stood and said, “I’d like to use your phone.”

“Sure.” Anthony walked me toward another set of double doors at the far end of the house and advised me, “You got to get a cell phone.”

“I’ll leave a quarter next to the phone.”

“You’ve been gone too long. Leave a buck.” He opened one of the doors and said, “That’s my den. You can find your way to the dining room.”

I entered the dark, air-conditioned room, and he closed the door behind me.

Anthony’s den was very masculine – mahogany, brass, leather, a wet bar, and a big television – and I guessed he took refuge in here whenever the estrogen levels got too high in the rest of the house.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I spotted his father’s collection of books from La Salle Military Academy. Frank, as I said, was a big fan of Machiavelli, but he also read St. Augustine and St. Ambrose so he could argue theology with priests. I wondered where he was now, and whom he was arguing with.

Anthony, on the other hand, favored the pagans, and I saw shelves lined with books about the Roman Empire, and I knew that Anthony wasn’t the first Mafia don to be impressed with how the Romans ran things, and how they settled their problems by whacking entire nations. Unfortunately, people like Anthony become educated beyond their intelligence, and they become more dangerous than, say, Uncle Sal.

Anyway, I found the phone on his desk and dialed Elizabeth’s cell phone. As the phone rang, I had two thoughts: One was that there was nothing in or on this desk that Anthony wouldn’t want me, his wife, or the FBI to see; the other was that his phone was probably tapped by one or more law enforcement agencies, or maybe even by Anthony’s business competitors, and perhaps by Anthony himself so he could check up on Megan. But now, with cell phones, the taps on landline phones would not be so interesting, so maybe no one was bothering with a phone tap. Nevertheless, I’d watch what I said.

Elizabeth’s voice mail informed me that she couldn’t take the call and invited me to leave a message at the beep. I said, “Elizabeth, this is John. Sorry I won’t be able to meet you at seven.” I hesitated, then said, “Susan and I are meeting.” I added, “Hope your mother is resting comfortably. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

I hung up and dialed Susan’s cell phone. She answered, and I said, “Hi, it’s me.”

“John, I’m glad you called. How is it going?”

“All right-”

“Did you tell him-?”

“Not yet, and I can’t speak freely.”

She probably thought that I was in earshot of Anthony, and not thinking about a phone tap. She said, “Well, let me tell you what’s happening. The phone rang in the gatehouse while I was packing your things, and I answered it.”

“All right…” Samantha? Elizabeth? Iranian terrorists?

Susan continued, “It was Elizabeth, looking for you.”

“Right. I used to live there.”

“She said that her mother has taken a turn for the worse and has slipped into a coma.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but we knew-”

“And she won’t be able to meet you at seven.”

“Oh… right. She wanted to take me to dinner to thank me-”

“She told me that. And I took the opportunity to tell her that you and I were back together.”

“Great. She was hoping we’d get back together.”

“That’s not the impression I had from our brief conversation. She seemed surprised.”

“Really? Well, I’m surprised, too. All right, let me get Anthony aside-”

“John, just tell him you need to leave now. I told Elizabeth we’d meet her at Fair Haven.” She added, “You can phone him later and tell him.”

“Susan, I need to do this now. In person. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“All right. Good luck. I love you.”

“Me, too.” I hung up and looked around the den again. Above the fireplace was a reproduction of Rubens’ Rape of the Sabine Women, which I thought said more about Anthony Bellarosa’s head than about his taste in art.

I was about to leave, but then I noticed, sitting on an easel, a familiar painting. It was, in fact, Susan’s oil painting of the palm court of Alhambra in ruins. I’d seen this painting for the first and last time in the restored palm court of Alhambra with Frank Bellarosa’s body lying a few feet away, and the artist herself being led off in handcuffs.

My judgment of the painting then was that it was one of her best. And I also recalled, looking at it now, that I’d made some sort of analogy between Susan’s representation of ruin and decay and her state of mind. Even today, I’m not sure if I wasn’t overanalyzing this. But I do remember that I put my fist through the canvas and sent it and the easel flying across the palm court.

I moved closer to the painting, and whoever had restored it had done a perfect job; it would be nice if life restoration was as perfect.

More to the point, I wondered who had it restored, and why, and also why it was here in Anthony Bellarosa’s den. I could see Susan’s clear signature in the right-hand corner, so Anthony knew who painted it.

I could think about this for a long time, and I could come up with any number of valid and invalid theories about why this painting was here; also, I could just ask him why. But that would only confuse what was simple; it was time to tell Anthony I wasn’t working for him, and tell him to stay away from my once and future wife.

When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, he knew there was no going back, so with that in mind, I took a letter opener from Anthony’s desk, went to the painting, and slashed the canvas until it was in shreds. Then I left the den and walked down a long corridor toward the sounds of dinner being served.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The long dining room table was set at one end for six people, and on the table were platters of mixed antipasto, a loaf of Italian bread, and a bottle of red wine.

Anthony was at the head of the table, Megan to his right, and his mother to his left. The kids sat together next to their mother, and Anna was helping herself to salami and cheese. She said to me, “Sit. Here. Next to me.”

I announced, “I apologize, but I need to go.”

Anna stopped serving herself and asked, “Go? Go where?”

I explained to everyone, “Ethel Allard, the lady who lives in the gatehouse, is in hospice, and she’s slipped into a coma.”

Anthony said, “That’s too bad.”

I continued, “I do apologize, but I need to be there in case” – I glanced at the children – “in case she passes tonight.”

Anna made the sign of the cross, but no one else did, though I considered it briefly.

Young Frank asked, “What’s a coma?”

Anthony was standing now, and he said to me, “Sure. No problem. We’ll do this again.”

Megan, too, stood, and said, “Let us know what happens.”

Kelly Ann inquired, of no one in particular, “What happens when you slip on a coma?”

Anna offered, “Let me pack you some food.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I need to hurry.” I looked at Anthony and nodded toward the door. He said, “I’ll walk you out.”

I gave Anna a quick hug, wished everyone a good dinner, and followed Anthony into the foyer.

He said to me, “When you know how that’s going, let me know. And when Gotti goes, you’ll know on the news, so after all this is done, we’ll get together.”

I said to him, “Let’s step outside.”

He looked at me, then glanced back toward the dining room and shouted, “Go ahead and start,” then he opened the door and we stepped outside and stood under the portico. He took the opportunity to light a cigarette and asked me, “What’s up?”

I said to him, “Susan and I have decided to get back together.”

“Huh?”

“Susan. My ex-wife. We are getting back together.”

He thought about that for a second, then said, “And you’re telling me this now?”

“When did you want to know?”

“Yesterday.”

“I didn’t know yesterday. And what difference does it make to you?”

He answered indirectly. “You know, I never understood how a guy could take back a wife who cheated on him. I don’t know about a guy like that.”

I would have suggested that he go fuck himself, but that would have ended the conversation, and I wasn’t finished. But I did say, “I hope you never have to find out what you’d do.”

That annoyed him, and he told me, “Hey, I know what I’d do, but you can do what the hell you want.”

“Thank you. I have.”

“I thought you were a smart guy, John. A guy who had some self-respect.”

I wasn’t going to let him bait me, and I didn’t need to respond, but I said, “That is none of your business.”

He replied, “I think it is. I think maybe this changes things between us.”

“There was never anything between us.”

“You’re full of shit. We had a deal, and you know it.”

“We didn’t, but if you think we did, the deal is off.”

“Yeah. If you go back to her, the deal is definitely off. But… if you change your mind about her, then we can talk.”

“I won’t change my mind about her, but you should.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. You still on that? Come on, John. I told you, if that was a problem, it would have been settled long ago. Don’t get yourself worked up. Go marry her. Have a happy life.”

He knew not to say anything that I could take to the police, and in fact, he reassured me by saying, “Women, children, and retards get a pass. Understand?” He explained, “There are rules.”

I reminded him, “Someone tried to kill your father right in front of your mother, who could also have been hurt or killed. Did someone forget the rules?”

He looked at me a long time, then said, “That’s none of your business.”

“Excuse me, Anthony. I was standing two feet from your father when the shotgun pellets went past my face. That’s when it became my business.”

He thought about that, then said, “It’s still none of your business.”

“All right. Don’t let me keep you from your dinner. Thank you for your hospitality. You have a nice family. I especially like your uncle Sal. And just so there’s no misunderstanding concerning Susan Sutter, I’m informing you now, as her attorney, that I’m going to have Susan swear out a complaint with the police, and go on record as being concerned about her safety regarding your intentions toward her. So, if anything should happen to her, the police will know who to talk to. Capisce?”

I expected him to go totally nuts, but he just stood there, staring past me. So I said, “Good day,” and I turned and started walking across his lawn.

“John.”

I turned, half expecting to see a gun, but instead he walked toward me, stopped, and in a conciliatory tone of voice said, “Hey, John, you don’t have to go complaining to the cops. We’re men. We can talk.”

“We’ve talked.”

“I thought you understood what I was saying. About what you did for my father. I told you that night I stopped by, I owed you a favor for saving his life. So you mentioned something about your wife. Remember? I wasn’t sure what you wanted, but now I understand. There was never a problem there anyway. But if you think there is, and that’s the favor you want, then you got it.” He added, “I swear this on my father’s grave.”

That should have been the end of it, but only if I trusted him, and I definitely did not. Given the choice between swearing out a complaint with the police and Anthony Bellarosa’s word of honor, I’d put my money and my life and Susan’s on the sworn complaint against Anthony. And the shotgun.

Anthony waited for a reply, but when none was forthcoming, he said, “No hard feelings. We go our separate ways, and you stop worrying about whatever you’re worried about. We’re all even now on favors.”

I didn’t want Anthony Bellarosa to think he was doing me any favors, even if we both knew he was lying, so I informed him, “Your father already repaid me for saving his life. So you don’t owe me anything.”

This seemed to surprise him, and he said, “Yeah? He paid you back for saving his life? Good. But I’ll pay you back again for that.”

“I do not want any favors from you.”

“Yeah?” He was clearly getting angry and impatient with me for not accepting his good wishes for a happy, worry-free life, and his promise not to kill Susan. So he said, “You’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of here.”

That really pissed me off, so I decided that Anthony now needed to know how his father repaid the favor. I moved closer to him, and we were barely two feet apart.

“Yeah? What?”

“Your father, Anthony, was in love with my wife, and she was in love with him, and they were ready to run off together, and leave you, your brothers, and your mother-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“But he owed me his life, so-”

“He was fucking her. That’s all he was doing. Fucking your wife for sport.”

“So I asked him to tell her it was over, and that he never loved her-”

“You’re full of shit.”

“And he did that for me, and unfortunately Susan, who was in love with him, snapped, and-”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Anthony, that’s why she killed him. She loved him and he loved her, and he broke his promise to take her with him to Italy under the Witness Protection Program.”

“How the fuck do you know-?”

“He was a government witness, Anthony, and you know that as well as I do. Look it up online. It’s all there.” He didn’t respond to that, so I concluded, “You asked me for the truth about your father, and I just gave it to you.”

He practically put his nose in my face and spoke in a slow, deliberate tone. “None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.”

I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back, ready for any move he might make, but he just stood there, staring at me. I said to him, “That sounds like a threat. Is that a threat?”

He should have backed off on that, but I’d pressed the right buttons, and he said, “Take it any way you want.”

“I take it as a threat. And so will the police.”

He didn’t reply, and I turned my back on him and walked toward my car.

He called out to me, “You think guys like you don’t have to worry about guys like me. Well, Counselor, you’re wrong about that.”

I was glad he understood the concept, but I wasn’t sure he was smart enough or cool enough, like his father, to know when to shut his mouth, take a hit, and move on. Or since he’d threatened Susan in front of me, then threatened me, he might be thinking he needed to get rid of both of us.

I got in my car, and as I pulled away from his house, I saw he was still standing on the lawn watching me.

I headed out of Alhambra Estates.

Now, I thought, I didn’t have to protect Susan from afar; we were together, and Anthony and I were also where we belonged: nose to nose with everything out in the open.

I stopped the car where the blacktop ended, and I looked at where Alhambra had stood, remembering the library where Frank Bellarosa and I had sat with cigars and grappa, talking about Machiavelli and about the murder charge he was facing. And before I knew it, I was part of the family. Well, history did not repeat itself this time, but history was still driving the bus.

The last time I saw Bellarosa, as I said, he was lying half-naked and dead on the floor of the palm court, beneath the mezzanine outside his bedroom. I looked to where I thought the palm court had been, where a long blacktop driveway now led to the garage of a small villa, and I could actually picture him lying there.

I took a last look around me, knowing I’d probably never again be on the grounds of Alhambra, then I continued on, past the guard booth, and turned right on Grace Lane for the quarter-mile drive back to the guest cottage of Stanhope Hall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I drove through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, past the gatehouse, and up the tree-lined drive to the guest cottage, where I parked next to Susan’s Lexus.

I got out of the car and went to the front door. Susan never used to lock doors, and still didn’t, so I opened the door, went into the foyer, and as I used to do, I called out, “Sweetheart, I’m home!”

No reply, so I went into the kitchen, and I could see her on the back patio, sitting in a chaise lounge, reading a magazine.

I opened the door, and she stood quickly, hurried toward me, and wrapped her arms around me, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.” She gave me a kiss and asked, “Did you tell him?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Well, as I expected, he didn’t take the news of our reunion very well.”

“Why did you even tell him that? That is none of his business. All you had to tell him was that you were not going to work for him.”

“Right. Normally I wouldn’t announce my engagement to a Mafia don, but I wanted him to know we were together, and that you were not alone.”

She thought about that, then replied, “All right… but I still think you’re overreacting.”

She wouldn’t think that if she’d stood with me and Anthony Bellarosa on his front lawn, but I didn’t want to alarm her, so I said, “I don’t think there will be any problem… but tomorrow, you and I will go to the local precinct and you need to swear out a complaint against Anthony Bellarosa, so that-”

“John, I don’t need to do that.” She added, “That might actually make him-”

“Susan. We will do this my way, and I don’t want any arguments. I want him to know that the police are aware of the situation. Understand?”

She looked at me, and despite my matter-of-fact tone, I could tell that she knew that I was concerned. She said, “All right.” Then she changed the subject and asked me, “Did you see Anna?”

“I did.”

“How was she? Friendly?”

“She was.” But did not send her regards to you.

Susan asked, “How is his wife?”

“She seemed nice enough.”

I recalled, from long ago, that whenever I went someplace without Susan, I got a cross-examination that rivaled anything I’d ever done with a witness. I really needed a drink, so I announced, “I think it’s cocktail time.”

“What did his wife look like?”

“Oh… she was actually pretty.” I added, “But not very refined.”

“Who else was there?”

“Salvatore D’Alessio. Uncle Sal. And his wife, Marie.” I asked, “Did you ever meet them?”

“No. How would I…?” Then, apparently recalling that she’d been a frequent visitor at Alhambra, she thought for a moment about things she’d been trying to forget for ten years, and replied, “Actually, yes. I did meet them. When I was at the house.” She explained, “I was painting in the palm court.” She wanted to end it there, but sensing she should share the entire memory with me, she continued, “They stopped by, and Anna introduced them, but we didn’t speak.”

She concluded, “He was a frightening-looking man.”

“Still is.”

Susan said, “I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”

“A pink squirrel.”

“How do I make that?”

“You pour four ounces of Scotch in a glass and add ice cubes.”

“All right… I’ll be right back.”

She went inside, and I gave some thought to Susan meeting Salvatore D’Alessio at Alhambra, and I wondered if it ever occurred to her that she had entered a world in which she had no control, and where she was not Lady Stanhope. In fact, she was nothing more than the mistress of the don, and that didn’t bestow much status. It was incredible if you thought about it – and I had – that Susan Stanhope, who’d led such a sheltered and privileged life, and who was so haughty, had debased herself by becoming the sex toy of a powerful but crude man. I mean, history is full of noble ladies who’ve done this – the wife of a Roman emperor became a prostitute by night – and I suppose a clinical psychologist would have a field day with this interesting dichotomy. Maybe Susan was trying to pay back Mommy and Daddy. Maybe I forgot to compliment her on a new dress. Or, most likely, she herself had no idea why she took a criminal as a lover. The mind, as they say, is the most powerful aphrodisiac, and no one knows how it works. In any case, I was fairly sure that Susan had gotten this out of her system. Been there, done that.

Susan returned with a tray on which was a glass of white wine and my Scotch. She set the tray on the table, we raised our glasses, clinked, and she said, “To us.”

I added, “Together, forever.”

I sipped my Scotch, and Susan informed me, “That’s your Scotch. I’ve had it since… I moved.”

I guess none of her gentlemen friends or her late husband drank Dewar’s. Or she was telling me a little white lie to make me feel that the last ten years were just a small pile of crap on the highway to a lifetime of happiness. Nonetheless, I said, “It’s improved with age.” I was going to add, “and so have you,” but with women, you need to be careful with those sorts of compliments.

She asked me, “How does that pink squirrel differ from a Scotch on the rocks?”

“Mostly, it’s the spelling.”

She smiled and said, “It’s going to take me a while to get used to your infantile humor again.”

“Infantile? I’ll have you know-”

She planted a kiss on my lips and said, “God, I missed you. I missed everything about you.”

“Me, too.”

So we held hands and stood there, looking out at the sunny garden, sipping our drinks. After a minute or so, she asked me, “How was their house?”

“Not too bad, but I didn’t stop at the sales office.” I wanted to return to a previous subject, so I asked her, “Did you know that Salvatore D’Alessio was the prime suspect behind what happened at Giulio’s?”

She glanced at me and replied, “No. You mean… his own brother-in-law?”

“That’s right. You never heard that?”

“Where would I hear that?”

Well, from the intended murder victim, your lover, for one. But I replied, “The newspapers.”

She didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “I didn’t follow it in the news.”

“That’s right.” In fact, I seem to recall that she hadn’t even followed the bigger story, a few weeks later, about Susan Stanhope Sutter killing Frank Bellarosa – and that wasn’t because she couldn’t bear to read about it; that was more about Susan’s deeply ingrained lack of interest in, and disdain for, the news in general. Her motto had been the famous observation that if you’ve read about one train wreck, you’ve read about them all. Of course, if you were in the train wreck, you might find it interesting to read about it. In any case, coupled with her lack of interest in the news was her upbringing in a social class that still believed that the only time a woman’s name should appear in the newspapers was when she was born, when she married, and when she died. So that didn’t leave much room for stories about killing your lover. In any case, I believed her when she said she had no knowledge that Salvatore D’Alessio had been the man who ruined our evening in Little Italy. In fact, I’d never mentioned it to her myself.

She asked me, “Why did you bring that up?”

I replied, “Because I think that… Anthony Bellarosa may harbor a grudge against his uncle. Also, his uncle may want to finish with Anthony what he started at Giulio’s with Frank.”

She didn’t reply for a long time, then pointed out, “But they… they were having dinner together.”

“Well, the D’Alessios didn’t stay for dinner, but I’m sure they have all dined together.” I explained, using Frank Bellarosa’s own words on this same subject, “One’s got nothing to do with the other.”

“Well, of course, it does, John. If that man tried to kill-”

“Susan, don’t even try to understand.” I thought about using an example of me taking out a contract on her father, but that was more of a fantasy than a good analogy, so I said, “The point is, I think this… vendetta has been on hold for ten years, and it may come to a head soon. So Anthony may be very busy for a while, trying to stay alive, and at the same time probably making plans to see that his uncle doesn’t.” Susan didn’t respond, so I concluded, “At least that’s what I think.”

She stared off into the rose garden, then finally said, “That’s unbelievable.”

“I just wanted to make you aware of what may happen.” And wake you up a little. “But this only concerns us to the extent that Anthony may not be living next door for long.” Or living at all. “So, the subject is closed.” I asked her, “Any word about Ethel?”

“No… John, what exactly did you say to Anthony, and what did he say to you?”

“I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

“All right…”

“What’s for dinner?”

She informed me, “I’ve made my specialty. Reservations.”

“Great. What time?”

“Seven. Did I tell you I canceled your seven o’clock dinner with Elizabeth?”

“Yes, and I already left her a message about that.”

“Well, she hadn’t gotten it when I spoke to her.”

“Right. You spoke to her first. So where are we going?”

“I thought you would like to have dinner at Seawanhaka.” She added, “For old time’s sake.”

I thought about my former yacht club, and to be truthful, I had mixed emotions about seeing it again. On the one hand, there were good memories attached to the club – parties, weddings, the annual Fourth of July barbecue on the lawn overlooking Oyster Bay Harbor, and also the fact that this was where Susan and I had first met at the Guest wedding. Aside from that, my best memories were of the great sailing in my thirty-six-foot Morgan, the original Paumanok, which I’d loved so much that I’d scuttled her in the bay rather than let the IRS seize her for back taxes. There were no bad memories attached to my yacht club, other than that final sail on the Paumanok. But I didn’t know if I wanted to go back there; I wanted to leave it as it was.

“John? Is that all right?”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Now is the time. I want to remember this day for the rest of our lives, and I want it to end on the back porch with the sun going down and a drink in our hands.”

“All right… but if anyone says to me, ‘John, I’m surprised to see you here after you ruined your life and ran off,’ I’m going to punch him.”

Susan laughed and said, “If anyone says that, we’ll both beat him up.”

“Deal.” I said, “Well, I need to freshen up.”

“I’ve unpacked all your things, and I’ve separated your laundry for the cleaning lady. You need to go to the dry cleaner tomorrow.” She then pointed out, “You’ve hardly brought enough to wear.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have Sophie – that’s my cleaning lady, she’s Polish, but speaks good English – I’ll have her press your black suit.” She added, unnecessarily, “You’ll need it soon.”

“Thank you.” I was relieved to discover that Susan hadn’t learned to wash or iron in the last ten years; that would have destroyed my image of her.

She reminded me, “But first, we need to stop at Fair Haven.”

“All right.”

“I would invite Elizabeth to join us for dinner – I know she’s free because I canceled her dinner date – but I’m sure she wants to maintain her vigil at her mother’s bedside, and also this is our first night together.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I did ask her, quite bluntly, if anything happened between you two last night.”

“And now you know that nothing happened. I am disappointed that you didn’t believe me, and I’m frankly surprised that you’d ask her that question, but-”

“I didn’t ask her, John.”

“Oh…”

“I can’t believe you’d even think I would ask her.”

“What do I know?” Meaning, about women.

Susan said to me, “But she did offer to explain her overnight stay, and I told her you’d already addressed that.”

“Good. So that’s settled. Again.” I glanced at my watch and said, “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll go up with you.”

We went back inside, climbed the stairs, and entered our bedroom suite. We brushed our teeth at the same sink, as we’d done so many times, and Susan touched up her makeup while I washed Casa Bellarosa off my hands and face.

I found a reasonably clean shirt hanging in my old closet, and Susan slipped on a nice white summer dress that looked good against her tan.

I used to think that Susan took too much time with her preparations, but after ten years of waiting for other women, I realized that Susan was actually fast. She is a natural beauty, and she doesn’t spend forever in front of the mirror or in her closet. It occurred to me that this time around, I’d appreciate her more. At least for the first few weeks.

She actually finished first and asked, “Ready?”

“I can’t find my comb.”

“It’s in your jacket, where it always is.”

I checked and, sure enough, it was there.

So we went downstairs, left the house, and she gave me a set of keys, saying, “These are yours.”

“Thank you.”

I locked the front door, and she noticed, but didn’t comment.

We used her Lexus, and I drove. As we passed the gatehouse, Susan said to me, “I called Soheila, as a courtesy, and told her you’d moved in with me.”

“Did she say you were a fallen woman?”

“No, John. She wished me luck.”

“That’s nice.” I reminded her, “I need to move back into the gatehouse when your parents arrive.”

“No. If they don’t like the arrangement, they can find other accommodations.”

I replied, with total insincerity, “I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your parents.”

She had no response to that, but said, “I e-mailed my parents and the children and told them that Ethel has slipped into a coma.”

“All right.”

I turned onto Grace Lane and headed toward Fair Haven Hospice House.

Susan hit the CD button and Bobby Darin was singing “Beyond the Sea.”

We rode in silence, listening to the music.

It was only eleven days until the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, and the sun was still high on the horizon, and the pleasant landscape was bathed in that special late afternoon summer sunlight, and a nice land breeze blew out to the Sound.

This had been the best of days, and the worst of days. But on balance, it was more good than bad. Unless, of course, you were Ethel Allard, or even Anthony Bellarosa, for that matter. But for Susan and me, it had been a very good day.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Susan called ahead to Elizabeth’s cell phone, so we knew that Ethel’s condition hadn’t changed, and when we arrived at Fair Haven, Elizabeth met us in the lobby. She was wearing a nice blue linen outfit, and she may have come here in what she’d worn to church after getting the call about her mother.

We exchanged hugs and kisses, and Susan and I expressed our sorrow at this turn of events. Elizabeth appeared composed and somewhat philosophical about her mother’s imminent demise, which, she informed us, Dr. Watral said would likely come within forty-eight hours.

Elizabeth, I thought, seemed friendlier to Susan than to me, and in fact, she barely spoke to me. Well, I understood that; we’d shared some pleasant and even intimate time together, and we were both lonely souls who thought maybe this was the start of something. And then Fate stepped in, as it does, and realigned the triangle.

Elizabeth asked us, “Would you like to see her?”

Susan replied, “Of course.”

So we took the elevator up to Ethel’s room, where a nurse sat in a chair in the corner, reading a romance novel. Ethel was connected to a few more tubes than the last time I’d seen her, but she seemed peaceful.

The window blinds were pulled this time, and the room was dark, except for the nurse’s reading lamp and the indirect cove lighting over Ethel’s bed.

Elizabeth said to us, “The doctor assures me she isn’t feeling any pain, and she does look so peaceful.”

Susan moved to Ethel’s bedside, took her hand, and leaned close to her face. She whispered, “God bless you, Ethel, and a safe journey home.” She kissed Ethel on the cheek and said, “Thank you for the hot chocolate and cookies.”

I took a deep breath, moved to Ethel’s bed, took her hand, and said to her, “Tell George I said hello when you see him.” And Augustus, too. I let her know, “Susan and I are together again.” I knew she was in a deep coma, but I thought I felt her squeeze my hand. I kissed her and said, “Goodbye.”

Well, there was little more to say after that, so the three of us went into the hallway and Elizabeth said to us, “Thank you for stopping by.”

Susan, feeling some guilt perhaps, or knowing that Elizabeth would not leave her mother’s bedside, offered, “We’re going to dinner at Seawanhaka. Why don’t you join us?”

Elizabeth smiled and replied, “That’s very kind of you, but I need to stay here.” She explained, “I’ve called a few people, who said they would come by.” She looked at me and let me know, “Your mother is coming soon, if you’d like to wait for her.”

I didn’t, so I replied, “I would, but my mother often loses track of time.” I remembered to say, “Please tell her I’m sorry I missed her.”

I thought Susan was going to give me an argument, but she didn’t.

I didn’t want to stay here any longer and run into Harriet, or the Reverend Hunnings, or anyone else I might not want to see, but I thought I should let Elizabeth know, “I’ve moved out of the gatehouse.”

She nodded and said, “I know.”

“So, you have full access to the house, and you can make arrangements to remove the furniture and personal items.” I added, “I’ll speak to Nasim about a reasonable amount of time to vacate the premises.”

She nodded again, looked at me, and said, “Thank you. And thank you also, John, for all you’ve done.”

We made brief eye contact, I nodded and replied, “I’ll handle whatever else needs to be done, and if you need anything, call me.”

Susan added, “Call my cell phone or the house, and I’ll get the message to John. And please let us know when Ethel passes.”

“I will.” Then she looked at us and said, “I’m very happy for you both.”

I was sure she was being as sincere as Susan had been in inviting her to dinner.

Anyway, we all hugged and kissed again, and Elizabeth went back in the room to continue her deathbed vigil, and Susan and I went down to the lobby.

On our way out to the parking lot, Susan asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your mother?”

I picked up the pace and replied, “We’d be here until sunrise.” I added, “I need a drink.”

“All right… but, I want you to call her and tell her we’re together again.”

I assured her, “I will, but then she’ll call you to try to talk you out of it.”

“John-”

I interrupted, “That was nice of you to invite Elizabeth to dinner.”

“I do like her.”

She wouldn’t have liked her if she’d said yes. Nevertheless, it was a nice gesture, and Susan was always kind to her friends.

Susan commented, “Elizabeth is one of the last of the old crowd.”

I nodded and thought about all the people we’d known who’d died, and those who’d moved away, and I replied, “Indeed, she is.”

Susan added, “There are not too many left, as I’m finding out.”

“Well, I’m back, and you’re back. We’ll make new friends in the subdivisions.”

“I think not.”

We held hands as we walked to the car. Fortune was with me again because we got to the car before I ran into anyone I didn’t want to see. But I knew I’d see them all at Ethel’s funeral. Thinking back, one of the people I had not been looking forward to seeing at the funeral was Susan. And now… well, it’s true – life is just one surprise after another. Some pleasant, and some not so pleasant.

We drove to Centre Island, which is actually a peninsula, but if you live in a ten- or twenty-million-dollar mansion on Oyster Bay or the Sound, you can call it whatever you want.

We drove into the parking field in front of the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and as I expected, the clubhouse looked the same as the last time I’d seen it, and pretty much the same as when it was built in 1892. William Swan, a close friend of Teddy Roosevelt, had been one of the founders of the club and its first commodore, and if he sailed into the harbor today, he’d easily recognize the big, three-story, gabled and shingled clubhouse, with white trim and black shutters. And unless things had changed in my absence, he’d feel right at home inside, as well. The dress code, of course, had changed, but the gentlemen still wore jackets, though ties were not always required, and as for the ladies, they dressed conservatively, but the old boys would still be shocked at the amount of skin showing.

The club was actually founded in 1871, making it one of the oldest Corinthian yacht clubs in America – Corinthian meaning that the yacht owners sailed and raced their own boats, without professional seamen, and this is in the spirit of the ancient Greek Corinthians, who apparently were the first people who competed in amateur racing for fun. The most sailing fun I’ve ever had, incidentally, was watching William and Charlotte puke their guts out aboard the Paumanok during a gale on the Sound. I remember that day fondly.

Susan asked, “What is making you smile?”

“You, darling.”

I parked in the gravel field and noted a lot of vehicles – mostly SUVs – on this pleasant Sunday evening, and Susan informed me, “Tonight is Salty Dog.”

Salty Dog is a barbecue on the lawn, and though I’m not sure where the name comes from, I never ate the spareribs, just to play it safe.

She added, “But I’ve made our reservation for the dining room, so we can be alone.”

“Good.” As we walked toward the clubhouse, I inquired, “Do we own a yacht?”

She smiled and replied, “No. I just wanted to rejoin the club. For social reasons.”

That may have meant meeting people, sometimes known as men. I reminded her, “In the good old days, single women were not admitted as members.”

“Well, thank God those days are over. What would you do without us?”

“I can’t even imagine.”

As we approached the clubhouse, I had second thoughts about coming here. I mean, I’d been asked, nicely, to leave for unspecified reasons, which may have included sinking my own boat, and being publicly identified on TV as a Mafia lawyer, not to mention my wife shooting and killing my Mafia client who was also her lover. On the other hand, Susan had been readmitted, and she had no hesitation about coming here. So maybe everyone had forgotten about all of that unpleasantness. What, then, was I concerned about?

“Dear Ms. Post, Well, I’m back with my ex-wife – the one who killed her Mafia lover – and she wants to take me to dinner at our former yacht club. Considering that we were kicked out for bad behavior (she committed adultery and murder, and I became a mob lawyer, and also sunk my yacht so the government couldn’t seize it for back taxes), do you think the club members will accept us? (Signed) Still Confused on Long Island.”

“Dear… Whatever, I assume one or both of you have been reinstated as members, so if you dress and act appropriately, and your dues and charges are paid up, the other members will be delighted to have such interesting people to speak to. Two caveats: One, do not initiate conversations about the murder, adultery, or being a mob lawyer or sinking the boat; wait for others to bring it up. Two, try to avoid repeating any of the criminal and socially unacceptable acts that got you blacklisted in the first place. Good luck. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. You two have a set of balls.”

Susan may have sensed my hesitation because she took my hand and said, “I’ve been here twice since I’ve been back, and I haven’t had a problem.” She reminded me, “The membership committee had no problem here, or at The Creek.”

I remarked, “Standards have certainly slipped.” In fact, maybe now I could get Frank Bellarosa into The Creek – if he wasn’t dead.

We entered the clubhouse, turned right into the bar room as we’d done so many times, and went up to the bar.

I was not surprised to see that nothing had changed, including the bartender, a cheerful bald-headed gent named Bennett, who said to Susan, “Good evening, Mrs. Sutter.” He looked at me and, without missing a beat, said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutter.”

“Hello, Bennett.” We both hesitated for a second, then reached out our hands, and he said, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Same here. Good to be back.”

He inquired, “Dark and stormy?”

“Please.”

He moved off to make two dark and stormies, which I actually don’t like, but it’s the club drink, and… well, why upset the universe?

I put my back to the bar and looked around. I recognized an older couple at one of the tables and noted some young couples who seemed to fit in well, though not all the men were wearing blue blazers and tan pants. Also, I couldn’t imagine that some of them knew port from starboard, but, I recalled, that was me once.

Susan asked me, “How does it feel?”

“Good.”

Bennett put the drinks on the bar, and Susan signed the chit.

I surveyed the room again, this time noting the Race Committee pewter mugs lined up in a niche on the wall, one of which had my name engraved on it. Another wall was covered with half-hull models, and there were old pictures on the other walls of people who were long dead and forgotten, but were immortalized here until the end of time, or at least until the female members got their way and redecorated.

Susan handed me my drink, we touched glasses, and she said, “Welcome back.”

The dark and stormy wasn’t too bad if you like dark rum and ginger beer in the same glass, which I don’t.

We took our drinks and moved into the big main room, which hadn’t changed too much and still looked very nautical with all the club members’ private flags hanging from the ceiling molding surrounding the room, and the cabinet full of racing trophies, a few of which I’d won.

There were a number of people sitting or standing in the main room having cocktails, and a few of them looked at us and did double takes, and some waved and we returned the greeting, though none got up from their seats to chat. I guessed they were surprised to see me, and to see Susan and me together, and no one wanted to be the first to come over and ask, “So, what is this all about?” I knew that after we’d passed through the room, tongues would wag, and possibly someone would be deputized to approach the formerly married Sutters and get the scoop.

In fact, before we got to the double doors that went out to the porch, a woman appeared in front of us, and it took me a second to recognize Mrs. Althea Gwynn, one of the grand dames of the old order, who, as I recalled, fancied herself the arbiter of good manners and acceptable behavior. Her husband, Dwight, I also recalled, was a decent man, who’d either suffered a stroke or was faking it so he didn’t have to speak to her.

Anyway, Mrs. Gwynn smiled tightly at me and Susan, and said to me, “I had heard that you were back, John.”

“I am.”

“How wonderful. And where are you living?”

“At home.”

“I see…”

Susan informed her, “John and I are back together.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you both.”

I really didn’t think so, but I replied, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Gwynn looked at me and said, “The last time I saw you, John – it has to be ten years now – you and Susan were dining at The Creek with… another couple who I believe were new to the area.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that. I believe that was Mr. Frank Bellarosa and his wife, Anna, formerly of Brooklyn.”

Mrs. Gwynn seemed a little surprised that I’d be so blunt – I was supposed to just say, “Has it been that long?”

Susan said to me, “It was Frank and Anna, darling. I remember that.”

I replied to Susan, “That’s right. We were welcoming them to the neighborhood.” I added, “But they didn’t stay long.”

Mrs. Gwynn didn’t know quite what to say, so she said, “Excuse me,” and walked off.

Susan put her arm through mine, and we continued through the room. She said to me, “That was very nice of Althea to greet us.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” I agreed, “to get up off her fat ass to pry.”

“Now, now, John. She was just remarking that it’s been ten years since she’s seen you.”

“Right. We were dining at The Creek with… who was that?”

“The Bellarosas, darling. Formerly of Brooklyn.”

We both laughed.

Well, it was a little funny, and Mrs. Gwynn was one of a dying breed, and not as important as she thought she was. But in her world, she’d done what she was put on this earth to do. And I was in awe of her steadfast snootiness and snobbery, especially since Susan was a Stanhope.

Anyway, Susan changed the subject and said, “I have your flag, and when we buy a boat, we’ll have it rehung.”

I wondered what had become of my boat flag; I know what became of my boat, so I said, “I’m not sure of my status here.”

She thought about that and replied, “You’re allowed to sink one boat every ten years.”

I smiled, but wondered how many lovers you were allowed to kill before you were banished forever. I gave myself a mental slap on the face for that.

Susan added, “When we’re married, you’ll be a member, and I will buy us a nice forty-footer that we’ll take down to the Caribbean for our honeymoon.”

I commented, “This deal is getting much better,” but I wondered if she understood that her six-figure-a-year allowance was at serious risk as a result of that honeymoon.

We walked out to the long, wrap-around covered porch, found two chairs, and sat facing the bay.

It was just 7:00 P.M., and the sun was sinking over the land to the southwest. Out on the lawn, which swept down to the water, the American flag billowed in a soft southerly breeze atop a tall flagpole, and the barbecue was in full swing. I noticed a lot of young couples and kids – more than I remembered in the past. The McMansion People.

Susan and I, as children and teenagers, came here with our parents, who were members, but the Stanhopes and the Sutters did not know one another, and neither Susan nor I could recall ever meeting, and if we did, it was not memorable.

My father had owned a beautiful seventeen-foot Thistle, and he’d taught me how to sail, which is one of my fondest memories of him.

William, my once and future father-in-law, a.k.a. Commodore Vomit, had not actually owned a sailboat; he didn’t know how to sail, but he had owned a number of power yachts, though large power craft are not encouraged to be kept here at the club. William and Charlotte’s membership at Seawanhaka Corinthian was mostly social, which was another skill he wasn’t good at.

I looked out at the three club docks, which jutted about a hundred feet into the bay. The Junior Club dock was crowded with adolescents, male and female, who were happy to be away from their parents, and who seemed to be engaged in pre-mating rituals. I recalled doing the same thing when I was young, and I also recalled that the boys, and even some of the girls, used to horse around a lot on the dock, and someone usually wound up in the water. I asked Susan, “Did you ever get thrown in the water?”

“At least once a week.” She reminisced, “This beastly boy, James Nelson, used to show his adolescent affection for me by throwing me off the dock.”

“You should have married him.”

“I would have, but I suspected he wasn’t going to grow out of it.” She asked me, “Did you throw girls off the dock?”

“I may have.”

“Did anyone throw you off the dock?” she asked.

“Only my mother, and only when she could find an anchor to tie around my ankle.”

“John. Don’t be awful.”

We held hands, and I looked south across the water. I could see the lights of the village of Oyster Bay, where I nearly had a new career, and I wondered if Anthony was still going to buy that building. It annoyed me, of course, that this man, whose fortune was so closely tied to criminal activity, had so much money. I’d felt the same way about his father. But I reminded myself, people like that don’t sleep well at night. Or if they did, their waking hours must be filled with dread and anxiety. And usually, the law, or a bullet, caught up with them. In fact, I hoped the bullet would catch up to Anthony, soon.

Susan said, “It’s so beautiful here.”

“It is.” The sunlight was sparkling on the water, and a few dozen sailboats and power boats were out on the bay, and fair-weather clouds moved slowly across the blue sky. I looked to the southeast toward Cove Neck, where Teddy Roosevelt’s house, Sagamore Hill, was now a National Historical Site, and where a few Roosevelts still lived, including old friends of ours, so I asked Susan, “Have you stayed in touch with Jim and Sally?”

She replied, “I did for some years, but they’ve moved to San Diego.”

“What are they doing in Mexico?”

“Southern California.” She suggested, “Stop being an East Coast snob.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I have an excuse – I was born a snob. You had to take lessons.”

“Point made.”

She said, “We should go in.”

“Let’s cancel dinner and sit here.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

Susan stood and disappeared into the clubhouse. I watched a forty-foot yawl coming in, its sails full with the southerly breeze, and I could almost feel the helm in my hands and the heeling deck beneath my feet.

Susan returned and said, “The Sutters are only drinking tonight.”

“The Sutters are my kind of people.”

We sat gazing at the sparkling water and the land across the bay, and the sky, and the boats, now with their running lights on, headed for their moorings as the sky darkened.

I looked out on the east lawn, and I said to her, “That’s where we met. Right where the wedding tent was pitched.”

“That’s so sweet of you to remember,” she said, but then suggested, “I think, though, it was closer to the porch here. I was coming out of the clubhouse and you were going in.”

“That’s right. I had to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“Well… anyway, I saw you – actually, I’d seen you earlier and tried to find out if you were with anyone, or if anyone knew who you were.” I added, “Well, I guess I’ve told you this.”

“Tell me again.”

So I related the story of my stalking, and my discovery that she wasn’t with a date, and that she was a Stanhope, and fabulously wealthy, which of course meant nothing at all to me because I was so captivated by her beauty and her self-assured manner, and so forth. Someone should have tipped me off that her parents were dreadful people, but I wasn’t looking to get married; I was looking to get… well, laid.

Anyway, I got that, plus got married, and also got her parents as a punishment for my original dishonorable intentions.

I said to Susan, “Thinking back on it, that line I used was divine inspiration.”

“And what line was that, John?”

“You remember. I said, regarding the bride… what was her first name…? Anyway, I said she was a Guest at her own wedding. Remember?”

Susan sat quietly for a second, then informed me, “That was the third time I’d heard that line that night.”

“No.”

“And I swore that the next man who said that to me, I would tell him he was an idiot.”

“Really?”

“Really. And that was you.”

“Well… I thought it was funny. And you laughed.”

“I did laugh. And that’s how I knew you were special.”

“I’m glad you laughed.” I added, “You were the first woman that night who did.”

The waitress came by with two more dark and stormies, and also a platter of crudités, and a platter of shrimp, which I guess Susan had ordered.

So we sat there, drank, talked, and watched the sun go down.

At sunset, colors were sounded and the cannon on the lawn boomed, and everyone stood silently and faced the flag as it was lowered.

The color guard folded the flag and carried it away, and Susan said to me, “Remember this day.”

“Until I die.”

“Me, too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Susan and I woke up in the same bed, and it took us a few minutes to adjust to this sleeping arrangement after ten years. Thankfully, I didn’t call her by another woman’s name, and she got my name right on the first try, but it was a little disorienting at 6:00 A.M.

Within half an hour, however, we’d slipped back into our old morning routines and dressed and went downstairs.

After a hearty lumberjack breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fish oil capsules, I announced to her, “We are going to the police station, and you are going to file a complaint.”

She didn’t respond, so I stood and said, “Let’s do that now.”

She remained seated and replied, “He hasn’t actually threatened me.”

“He has.”

She glanced at me, then stood and got her handbag. I put on my blue blazer, and we left the house and got into her Lexus.

I headed south toward the Second Precinct of the Nassau County Police Department, which was about a half-hour drive from Stanhope Hall, and half a world away.

It had been the detectives from this precinct who’d initially responded to the FBI’s report, ten years ago, of a shooting at Alhambra, and I assumed there might still be people there who remembered the incident. How could they forget it? So we’d get the attention we needed, though perhaps not the attention we wanted, considering that the FBI hijacked the case from the state, and the U.S. Justice Department gave Susan a pass on the murder.

Well, maybe the county police were over it by now, and this complaint would give them an opportunity to ask questions of Mr. Anthony Bellarosa, heir to his father’s evil empire.

Anyway, it was another beautiful, sunny day, and if it wasn’t for this cloud hanging over us, our future would be as bright as the sky.

I glanced at Susan and saw she seemed withdrawn. I said to her, “This won’t be pleasant, but as your attorney and future husband, I feel this is a necessary precaution.”

She didn’t reply. Maybe she thought that I was pushing the past in her face, but I wasn’t. I was, however, addressing the consequence of what she’d done ten years ago, and she, too, needed to address that.

I gave her a short briefing on what to expect, and what to say, but she didn’t seem to be listening. I myself had little experience with making a complaint to the police, and I really wasn’t certain exactly what would happen, but as an attorney, I could figure it out when I got there.

Susan slid a CD into the player, and we drove on, listening to Wagner blasting out of a dozen speakers.

We approached the village of Woodbury, and I spotted the sign for the Second Precinct station house. I turned right off Jericho Turnpike, then left into a side parking lot marked for visitors, popped Richard Wagner out of the CD player, and said to Susan, “This may take an hour or more. Then we’re done.”

She asked me, “Will the police go to see him?”

I replied, “Yes, they will.”

She didn’t seem happy about that, so I said, “It’s just standard procedure. To get his side of it.” But in truth, the detectives who followed up on this complaint were, as I said, going to take the opportunity to give Anthony Bellarosa a hard time and, more importantly, to deliver an unambiguous warning to him and tell him he was under the eye. And if luck was really with us, he’d say something incriminating, and they’d have cause to arrest him. But even if they didn’t arrest him, Anthony would be one pissed-off paesano, which was probably Susan’s concern. Well, he was already pissed off, and now he needed to be put on notice.

We got out of the car and walked around to the front. The precinct house was a one-story brick colonial-style structure with white trim and shutters, and it reminded me of the Friendly’s ice cream restaurant that we had just passed. We walked through the front door into a vestibule that led into a public reception area.

There was a long counter on the far side of the room, manned by two uniformed officers. As we approached, the younger of the two officers, whose name tag read Anderson, eyeballed Susan, then turned his attention to me and asked, “How can I help you?”

I said, “We’re here to file a complaint.”

“Okay. What kind of complaint?”

I replied, “A physical threat directed at this woman.”

He looked at Susan again and asked her, “Who made this threat?”

She replied, “A neighbor.”

I expanded on that and said, “The neighbor is a man named Anthony Bellarosa, who may be involved in organized crime.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?”

Apparently Officer Anderson wasn’t familiar with that name, and I knew that Anthony Bellarosa kept a very low profile, so I replied, “He is the son of Frank Bellarosa.”

The young officer still didn’t seem to know the name and said, “Okay. And who are you?”

“I am this lady’s attorney.”

That seemed to get his attention, and he sized up the situation, noting, I’m sure, our clothing and prep school accents, and he probably concluded that this could be something interesting. Interesting was not his department, so he turned around and asked the higher-ranking officer at the desk behind him, “Hey, Lieutenant – you ever hear of a wiseguy named Anthony Bellarosa?”

The lieutenant looked up from his computer, looked at Susan and me, and replied to Anderson, “Yeah. Why?”

Officer Anderson informed him, “This woman is a neighbor of his, and she says he made threats against her.”

The lieutenant stood and came over to the counter and asked me, “Is this your wife, sir?”

“Soon to be. My name is John Sutter, and this is Susan Sutter, and I am her attorney.” And so he didn’t think I was marrying my sister, I explained, “We have been previously married to each other.”

“Okay.” He said to Officer Anderson, “Show them into the interview room and take a case report.”

Officer Anderson found some forms behind the counter, then came around and escorted us into a small room off to the right. He said, “Have a seat, and let’s talk about what happened.”

He began by filling out a police form, apparently used to initiate reporting of any type of occurrence that could possibly come to the attention of a law enforcement agency. Officer Anderson asked for our names, address, and related information to identify Susan as the complainant in this report, and then requested a brief description of what had occurred, including the identity of the parties involved in the incident. I did most, if not all, of the talking on behalf of my client.

After completing this report, Officer Anderson began to take a full statement from us on another police form as to the extent of our complaint against Anthony Bellarosa and the specific details involved. Again, I was Susan’s mouthpiece, and I outlined the conversations that I had with Anthony Bellarosa, and in particular the statements he made as they related to Susan’s well-being. When Officer Anderson finished writing, he handed me the form, PDCN Form 32A, which I read, and then gave to Susan along with my pen and said, “Sign here.”

She signed it without looking at it, which is what she always does. She hadn’t even read the prenuptial agreement that her father’s attorneys had drawn up. And why should she bother after the opening line, which said, “The husband gets to keep nothing beyond the pen he used to sign this document”?

Officer Anderson took the forms and stood, telling us to wait in the room while he inquired if a detective was available to follow up on any related investigation and take a more extensive statement if required. When he left the room, I advised Susan, “If someone else interviews you, please try to show some interest in this.”

She shrugged.

A few minutes later, a man in civilian clothes carrying the report entered the room and introduced himself as Detective A. J. Nastasi, and we all shook hands.

Detective Nastasi was an intelligent-looking man and he was in his forties, so he was old enough to remember the original incident that had brought us here. He was dressed in a very dapper pinstripe suit that would blend in nicely at my old law firm. He seemed to be a man of few words – the thoughtful, silent detective type – and I’m sure he’d heard it all by now.

Detective Nastasi glanced at the report and said to Susan, “So, Anthony Bellarosa has threatened you.”

She replied, “No.”

“Okay… but you think he may pose a threat to you.”

She replied, “I’m not sure.”

Detective Nastasi wasn’t sure either, so I said, “Detective, I’m the one who has heard what I believe are threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter, and I’m prepared to provide you with a statement to that effect.”

“Good.” He said, “Please follow me.”

Susan and I followed Detective Nastasi back through the open area, then down a flight of stairs into the detective squad room, which was buzzing with activity – civilians being questioned or making statements to detectives, and phones ringing.

We passed through the busy squad room, and Detective Nastasi opened a door marked detective lieutenant patrick conway – commanding officer.

Detective Nastasi ushered us into the quiet office, which was unoccupied. He said, “We can use this room.” He added, “More private.”

Apparently, we’d gotten someone’s attention, or Anthony Bellarosa had.

Detective Nastasi sat behind his commanding officer’s desk, and we sat in the two facing chairs. He played with the computer awhile, reading the screen, then said, “Just so you know, Anthony Bellarosa has never been charged with a crime, and there have been no complaints of any type lodged against him.” He looked at us and said, “But to be real, he’s not the kind of man anyone would complain about.” He looked at Susan and added, “So, if you begin this, then you should understand that we will pay him a visit, and discuss with him what you’ve alleged. Okay?”

I replied, “That’s why we’re here.”

He kept looking at Susan and asked, “Okay?”

She didn’t reply, and Nastasi leaned back in his chair and asked, “You want to withdraw this sworn complaint?”

I replied, “Speaking as her attorney, she does not.”

He continued to look at Susan, sizing up the situation, but, getting no response, he went back to his computer and began typing on the keyboard.

I was becoming a little annoyed with her. I mean, all I was trying to do was to save her life, and the least she could do was to cooperate.

As Detective Nastasi kept typing, I wondered if the police had taken her here ten years ago after they’d led her off from Alhambra in handcuffs. But most likely they’d have taken her directly to the Homicide Squad at police headquarters in Mineola, which is the county seat. Though when you’ve seen the inside of one police station, you’ve seen them all, so I wanted to be sensitive to what she was feeling now, and sensitive to the bad memories that she was reliving. But I needed to be tough with her so that this potential threat did not become a reality. Unfortunately, reality was, and had always been, a problem with Susan. So, to wake her up, I said to her, “All right. Let’s go.” I stood and said to Detective Nastasi, “We need to think about this. In the meantime, we want to withdraw the complaint.” I turned to Susan and said again, “Let’s go.”

She started to rise, glanced at me, then sat back in her chair and said, “Let’s finish this.”

That seemed to make Detective Nastasi happy, and I thought he understood and appreciated my bluff. He said to Susan, “I think you’re making the right decision, Mrs. Sutter.” He assured her, “Let us worry about this, so you don’t have to.”

She informed him, “I am not worried.”

“Okay.” He looked at me and said, “But you’re worried.”

“I am.”

“Right. Tell me why you’re worried.”

I replied, “Detective, as I said, I’m the one who actually heard what I believe are credible threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter.” I continued, “Mrs. Sutter is my former wife, and to give you some background about why I think these threats are credible-”

“Right. I know all that.” He informed us, “I was there that night.”

I looked at him, and he did seem familiar, but there had been a lot of county detectives, FBI agents, and forensic people at Alhambra that night. However, in the interest of bonding with Detective Nastasi, I said, “Yes, I remember you.”

He informed me, “And I remember you.” He looked at Susan and said, “You, too.” He asked her, “Didn’t you leave this state?”

She replied, “I did.”

“And you are back now” – he tapped the complaint form – “at this address?”

“I am.”

He said, “And Bellarosa’s at his father’s old address.”

I replied, “In a manner of speaking.” I explained about the sub-division without sounding judgmental about multimillion-dollar McMansions.

Detective Nastasi consulted his computer monitor as I spoke. Then he said to me, “That case was never resolved in state court.”

I assumed he was speaking of the homicide charge against Susan Sutter, so I replied, “It was resolved in Federal court.” I added, “The… the murder victim was a government witness.”

Detective Nastasi nodded, then looked at Susan, and said to me, “Off the record, I wasn’t too happy about that. But, okay, it’s done, and we need to talk about what’s happening now because of what happened then.”

I glanced at Susan, who had withdrawn into a place I call Susan-Land, and she didn’t seem annoyed or upset about Detective Nastasi’s off-the-record statement, nor did she seem contrite about the murder, or sheepish about beating the rap.

To get this back on track, I said again to Detective Nastasi, “I’m prepared to give you a statement now.”

He said to me, “Usually, we hear from the complainant first, but… I’ll take your statement first.” He swiveled his chair back to the keyboard and said, “I type fast, but take a breather now and then.”

I reminded him, “I’m an attorney.”

“Okay, Counselor. Ready when you are.”

After the preliminaries of who I was, where I lived, and so forth, I began my statement by mentioning the murder of Frank Bellarosa ten years ago, then I stated that I had been living in London for the past seven years, but that I was still admitted to the New York State Bar. Detective A. J. Nastasi typed as I spoke.

I then recounted the night that Mr. Anthony Bellarosa paid me an unannounced visit at the gatehouse where I was temporarily living, and without getting into everything that was said that night, I got to the crux of the matter and recounted my conversation with Mr. Bellarosa regarding my former wife, Susan Sutter.

Detective Nastasi continued to type, appreciating, I hope, my clear, factual narrative as well as my good grammar and diction.

Susan, who was hearing some of this for the first time, didn’t react, but just sat there staring into space.

I then told of my dinner with Mr. Bellarosa at Wong Lee’s restaurant, and I mentioned his offer to hire me as one of his attorneys.

Detective Nastasi glanced at me for the first time, then continued to type.

I’m obviously good at sworn testimony, despite what two of my incarcerated tax clients may think, and I stuck to the pertinent facts of the complaint – omitting any facts that might be misconstrued as me and Anthony negotiating a job offer.

I then went on to the chance meeting I had with Bellarosa when I had been jogging on Grace Lane, and my car ride with him and his driver to Oyster Bay, and our visit to the building that Mr. Bellarosa was thinking of buying, and his further attempts to convince me to work for him.

Some of this wasn’t relevant to the issue of the threats, but I could tell that Detective Nastasi was intrigued by all of this. Susan, however, seemed to be getting a bit annoyed, perhaps about my flirting with her dead lover’s son. I could almost hear her say, “Are you insane?”

I explained, for the record, that I had negative feelings about Mr. Bellarosa’s interest in me, but I was concerned about Susan’s safety, so I thought it might be a good idea to continue to engage in these conversations with Mr. Bellarosa so that I could better determine the threat level, and also determine my next course of action.

Detective Nastasi interrupted me for the first time. “You and Mrs. Sutter had at this time decided to remarry.”

I replied, “No.”

“Okay. But you were speaking about it?”

I replied, “We were not speaking at all.” I added, “We hadn’t spoken in about three years.”

Susan said, “Four.”

“Right, four.” I was glad she’d been listening.

Detective Nastasi nodded, then asked me, “So why were you bothering to go through this trouble?”

I glanced at Susan and replied to Detective Nastasi, “I… I still had positive feelings toward her, and she is the mother of our children.” Plus, I wasn’t paying alimony, so there was no good reason for me to want her dead.

There was a silence in the room, so I continued, “Because we weren’t romantically involved, my growing concern about Bellarosa’s intentions toward Mrs. Sutter was not colored by emotion.” I added, “Now the situation between Mrs. Sutter and me has changed, so I was able to discuss this with her, and we decided to come here as a precaution.”

Nastasi nodded, probably wondering how much spin I was putting on this for him and for Susan. He said to me, “I think I understand why you were speaking to Bellarosa, Mr. Sutter.” He then editorialized, “But it’s not a good idea to talk about business opportunities with a man who may be involved in organized crime.”

“Thank you for the advice, Detective. But as you say, his rap sheet is as clean as I assume yours is.”

Detective Nastasi smiled for the first time, then turned back to his keyboard and said, “Please continue.”

I concluded with my visit to the Bellarosa home for Sunday dinner, mentioning that by this time, Mrs. Sutter and I had reunited, and that she had advised against this. I also mentioned that Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, had been there briefly.

Detective Nastasi asked me, “And you’d met him before?”

“Yes. Ten years ago when I was doing some legal work for Frank Bellarosa.”

“Right.” He commented, “These are very bad guys you were having Sunday dinner with, Mr. Sutter.”

“I didn’t actually stay for dinner.”

“Good.” He stopped typing, and I could tell he was thinking about something, and he said to me, “Hey, you were at that failed hit in Little Italy.”

Apparently, he’d made a word association between Salvatore D’Alessio, Frank Bellarosa, and the attempted whack. I replied, “That’s correct.”

“You saved Bellarosa’s life.”

“I stopped the bleeding.” I added, “Good Samaritan.”

He glanced at Susan, probably thinking about the irony of me saving the life of my wife’s lover, and the further irony of her later killing the man whose life I’d saved. But if Detective Nastasi had anything to say about that, or about us, he kept it to himself and continued, “Okay, so on this occasion – at Anthony Bellarosa’s house yesterday, did Anthony Bellarosa make any threats against Mrs. Sutter?”

“He did.” I related some of our conversation out on the front lawn and quoted Anthony directly. “He said, apropos of something I said, ‘None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.’”

Detective Nastasi asked me, “And that was a direct quote?”

“Word for word.”

“Okay. And you said?”

“I asked him if that was a threat, and he replied, quote, ‘Take it any way you want.’” I added, “The last thing he said to me was, ‘You think guys like you don’t have to worry about guys like me. Well, Counselor, you’re wrong about that.’”

Detective Nastasi finished typing that, then asked me, “Did you take that as a personal threat?”

“I did.”

“Okay. Anything else to add?”

I replied, “Just that I take these threats against Mrs. Sutter – and me – seriously, based on what I heard and based on the fact that Mrs. Sutter killed Anthony Bellarosa’s father.”

Detective Nastasi duly recorded that on his keyboard, and looked at Susan and asked, “Do you want to add anything to Mr. Sutter’s statement?”

“No.”

“Do you want to say something about how you feel about this possible threat on your life?”

Susan thought a moment, then replied, “Well… having heard all of this – some of it for the first time – I believe the threat may exist.”

Detective Nastasi typed that without comment, then swiveled around and said to us, “Usually, these guys never threaten. They just do. So maybe this is all talk.”

I responded, “I know that. But this guy is young. He’s not his father.” I added, “I think he’s a hothead.” I didn’t tell him that I’d said a few things that made Anthony very angry, hoping he’d make an actual, quotable threat. And neither did I tell Detective Nastasi that I’d had a minor meltdown and slashed a painting in Anthony Bellarosa’s office – that was irrelevant except to Anthony, who would have a shit fit when he discovered it. I did tell Nastasi, however, “The threat may or may not be real, but it was made, so that in itself could be considered harassment and threatening under the law.”

“Right. I got that, Counselor.” He added, “Let’s see what he says when I talk to him.”

“All right. So, what’s next?”

Detective Nastasi hit the print button and said, “You read this and sign it.” As the pages printed out, he further informed us, “This will be part of the case report. We take threats seriously, and we will follow up with the party named. Meanwhile, I advise you both to avoid all contact with this man.”

“Goes without saying.”

“Right. But I have to say it.” He added, “I’d advise you also to take some normal precautions, but I’ll leave that to you to decide what kind of precautions.” He looked at us and said, “After I speak to him, I’ll get back to you and advise you further.”

I asked, “When will you speak to him?”

“Very soon.”

My statement was hot out of the printer, and Detective Nastasi handed it to me and said, “Look it over, then if everything is in order, I’d like you to sign it.”

I scanned the pages, then took my pen and signed where my name was printed.

Detective Nastasi gave each of us his card and said, “Call me if you think of anything else, or if you see him around, or if you see anything that arouses your suspicion.” He added, “Or call 9-1- 1.”

I nodded and asked him, “Do you intend to put him under surveillance?”

He replied, “I’ll take that up with my supervisors after we speak to Bellarosa.”

That seemed to be about it for now, so Detective Nastasi walked us back through the squad room and up the stairs and into the big reception room. I said to him, “Thank you for your time and your attention to this matter.”

He didn’t reply to that, but said to us, “If you intend to leave the area for any reason, please let us know.” Then he assured us, “You did the right thing by coming in.”

We shook hands, and Susan and I left the station house and walked toward the car. I said to her, “We did do the right thing, and this is going to be all right.”

She asked me, “Can we change the subject now?”

“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

“Anything.”

We got in the car and I headed home. We drove in silence awhile, then Susan said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you care about me, or my money?”

“Your money.”

She pointed out, “But you were worried about me even before you proposed to me.”

Did I propose? Anyway, I replied, “I’ve always cared about you, Susan, even when I wanted to break your neck.”

“That’s very sweet.” She thought a moment, then said, “This is all my fault.”

I assured her, “It is. But it’s our problem.”

She thought about that, then said, “I didn’t know he threatened you.”

I didn’t respond.

She asked me, “What did you say to him that made him say that to you?”

I told him that his father was going to abandon his whole family for Susan Sutter, and it felt good saying it.

“John? What did you say to him?”

“I just turned down his job offer without showing the proper respect.”

“That hardly warrants the kind of threat he made.”

I changed the subject and said, “I think we should take a vacation right after Ethel’s funeral.”

“I’ll think about it.” She said, “Meanwhile, it’s a beautiful day, and I need a break, so why don’t we drive out to the Hamptons for the day?”

If she meant a mental health break, we’d be gone a few months, but I replied, “Good idea. We’ll stop and get our bathing suits.”

“There’s that beach in Southampton where we don’t need bathing suits.”

“Okay.” I made a course correction, and within ten minutes we were on the Long Island Expressway heading east to the Hamptons for a skinny-dip in the ocean.

I had once owned a summer house in East Hampton, and so had my parents, and the Sutter family would spend as much of the summer as possible out east. When my children were young, and when I was still on speaking terms with my parents, those had been magical, barefoot summers, filled with awe and wonder for the kids, and with peace and love for Susan and me.

I had sold the house because of my tax problems, and I hadn’t been back to the Hamptons in the last decade, so I was looking forward to spending the day out east, and not thinking about this morning, or tomorrow.

Susan said, “This will be like old times.”

“Even better.”

“And the best is yet to come.”

“It is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

There are no officially sanctioned nude beaches in the Hamptons, but we found the secluded ocean beach in Southampton that was unofficially clothes-optional.

I parked the car in the small windswept lot and we got out. The beach was nearly deserted on this Monday in early June, but there were two couples in the water, and when the surf ran out, we confirmed that they were skinny-dippers.

Susan and I ran down to the wide, white-sand beach, shucked our clothes, and dove in the chilly water. Susan exclaimed, “Holy shit.”

It was a bit cool, but we stayed in for about half an hour, and before hypothermia set in, we ran back to the beach. As we pulled on our clothes over our wet bodies, Susan said, “I remember the first time we did this together, when we were dating.” She reminded me, “I’d never done this before, and I thought you were crazy.”

“Crazy in love.” In fact, there were a lot of things that Susan Stanhope hadn’t done before she met me, and maybe I was attracted to that sheltered rich girl who was gamely going along with my silly antics. I was trying to impress her, of course, and she was trying to show me she was just like everyone else. Eventually we both started being ourselves, and it was a relief to discover that we still liked each other.

We jogged back to the car and drove into the formerly quaint, now boutiquified village of Southampton, and had a late lunch at one of our old haunts, a pub called the Drivers Seat. At Susan’s strong suggestion, I ordered a grilled chicken salad and sparkling water, but when I got up to go to the men’s room, I changed it to a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a beer. Susan apparently remembered this trick, and when she went to the ladies’ room, she reinstated the original order. A good friend once said to me, “Never date or remarry your ex-wife.” Now I get it.

After our salads, we took a walk along Job’s Lane, which, according to a marker, was laid out in 1664, and was now filled with trendy shops, restaurants, and adventurous settlers from Manhattan Island.

Susan said, “Let’s buy you some clothes.”

“I have some clothes.”

“Come on, John. Just a few shirts.”

So we stopped in a few shops and bought a few dress shirts, and a few sports shirts, a few ties, and a few jeans, and a few other things I didn’t know I needed. She bought a few things for herself as well.

We decided to stay overnight, so we also bought workout clothes and bathing suits, and Susan called Gurney’s Inn, out near Montauk Point, which has spa facilities, and she booked a room with an ocean view. We then drove east, through the remaining villages of the Hamptons, including East Hampton, where we’d once had our summer house, and I asked her, “Do you want to drive past our old house?”

She shook her head and replied, “Too sad.” She reminded me, “The children really loved that house, and loved being here.” Then she brightened and said, “Let’s buy it back.”

I replied, “You can’t buy back all your old houses.”

“Why not?”

“Well, money, for one thing.”

She informed me, “I don’t want to sound crass, John, but someday I’ll inherit my share of a hundred million dollars.”

That was the first time I’d ever heard what the Stanhopes were actually worth, and I almost drove off the road. I mean, the Stanhope fortune, when it was mentioned at all, was always preceded by the adjectives “diminished” or “dwindling,” which made me feel sorry for William and Charlotte. Not really, but I always pegged their net worth at about ten or maybe twenty million, so this number came as a surprise. Now I was really in love. Just kidding.

Anyway, I knew that Edward and Carolyn, the only grandchildren, would be in William’s will, and then there was Susan’s brother, Peter, the Lotus Eater, and, of course, Charlotte, if she survived William. Charlotte, however, was not a Stanhope, so in the world of old money, the bulk of the Stanhope estate would bypass her – who, in any case, had her own family money – and through some clever tax and estate planning, and complicated trusts, most of the Stanhope fortune would pass to William’s lineal descendents. That was how William got it from Augustus, and how Augustus got it from Cyrus.

So some quick math would reveal that Susan Stanhope should pop a bottle of champagne at William’s funeral.

Unless, of course, she married me, so I reminded her, “Your share may be closer to zero.”

She had no reply to that, but I could tell reality was setting in.

We continued on, past the villages and through a stretch of desolate dunes. Farther on was the Montauk Point Lighthouse, on the easternmost tip of Long Island. The last time I’d seen the lighthouse, it was from the water, ten years ago, when I’d rounded the point on my sail to Hilton Head, and I’ve wondered about a million times what would have happened if I’d actually stopped there and seen her.

I still don’t think either of us would have been ready for a reconciliation, but if we’d spoken, I don’t believe I would have stayed away ten years. But who knows?

Before we reached the point, Gurney’s Inn came up on the ocean side of the road, and I pulled in and parked at reception.

We checked into the ocean-view room, then we changed into our newly purchased workout clothes and spent a few hours using the spa and exercise facilities.

Susan had scheduled a beauty treatment of some sort, so I took the opportunity to go back to our room, and I called the general number of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Manhattan.

After a bit of a bureaucratic runaround, I got someone in the Organized Crime Task Force, and said to him, “My name is John Sutter, and I am looking for Special Agent Felix Mancuso.”

“And what is this in reference to, sir?”

I replied, “He handled a case that I was involved in ten years ago. I would like to speak to him about a new development, if he’s there, please.”

“And he’ll know what this is about?”

“He will.”

“All right. I can’t confirm that he’s here, sir, but if you leave your contact information, I will have him, or someone, get back to you.”

“Fine.” I gave him the number of Gurney’s Inn, which I said would be good until morning, then I gave him the number of the guest cottage as my home phone.

He asked, “Is there a cell number we can reach you at?”

I replied, “I don’t have a cell phone.”

He didn’t respond for a second, and I thought I’d committed some sort of criminal offense, so I explained, “I’ve just transferred here from London.” I added, “I’ll have one soon.”

“All right, so someone can leave you a message at these numbers?”

“Correct.” I added, “Please tell Special Agent Mancuso that it’s important.”

“Will do.”

I hung up and went back to the spa for our scheduled couples’ massage.

Susan had booked a masseuse for herself, a tiny East Asian lady, and a masseur for me, who may have once been convicted of torture.

As we were lying side by side on the tables, Susan said to me, “I went to the business office and e-mailed the children and my parents to update them on Ethel’s condition, and told them they should think about getting here soon.”

“Did you tell your parents our good news?”

“No, and in my e-mail to the children, I told them not to say anything to anyone until you made the announcement.”

“Right.” I hoped when I told Mom and Dad the good news, they’d drop dead before they disinherited their daughter. A hundred million? Maybe I should have been nicer to them. Or maybe I should call Sally Da-da and work out a deal.

Actually, I used to know people on the Gold Coast and here in the Hamptons who were worth hundreds of millions, so that number didn’t completely stun me. What stunned me was that William, who always acted as though he was a paycheck away from being homeless, actually had that kind of money. This really annoyed me. I mean, that cheap, tightwad bastard… but maybe Susan had the number wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Actually, I thought, it could be more.

Susan asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh… I’m thinking about getting your oiled-up body back to the room.”

The masseuse tittered, and the masseur chuckled, and Susan said, “John.”

We finished our massages in silence, then took our oiled-up bodies back to our room. The message light wasn’t on, and we made love, napped, then dressed and went down to the cocktail lounge and watched the ocean and the darkening sky.

We had a dinner reservation at the hotel, and we got to the restaurant late and tipsy as the last of the sun faded from the sky.

Susan looked at me across the candlelit table and said, “I never thought I’d see you again sitting across from me in a restaurant.”

I took her hand and said, “We have many good years ahead of us.”

“I know we do.”

Her cell phone rang, and she looked at it, and said to me, “I don’t need to take it.”

She shut off the phone and slipped it back into her purse.

I wasn’t sure if I should ask who’d called – it could be her parents, or our children responding to her e-mail, or Elizabeth with some bad news. Or it could be a man. And if she wanted me to know who it was, she’d have told me.

However, she seemed suddenly less cheerful, so I did ask, “Who was that?”

She replied, “Nassau County Police Department.”

I said, “Play the message.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

She retrieved her cell phone, turned it on and punched in her password, then handed it to me.

I put the phone to my ear and heard, “Hello, Mrs. Sutter, this is Detective Nastasi, Nassau County PD. I just want you to know that I called on the subject tonight, at his home, and his wife informed me that he was out of town for an unspecified period of time. Call me back at your convenience.” He added, “Please pass this on to Mr. Sutter.”

I hit the replay button and handed her the phone. As she listened, I thought about Anthony Bellarosa being out of town. That didn’t comport with him needing to stay close to home for John Gotti’s imminent death and funeral. Maybe, though, Uncle Sal had jumped the gun – pardon the pun – and Anthony was somewhere out there in the ocean, feeding the fishes as they say. Wouldn’t that be nice? But if not, then Anthony’s sudden disappearance was more worrisome than it was comforting.

Susan shut off her phone again and put it back in her purse.

I said, “We’ll call him tomorrow.”

She changed the subject and said, “I want you to order from the spa menu.”

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

She informed me, “You are what you eat.”

“Well, then, I need to change my name to Prime Rib.”

“I recommend the steamed halibut.”

“I had fish oil for breakfast.”

“I want you around for a long time.”

“Well, it’s going to seem like a long time if I have to eat that crap.”

“Go ahead, then, order your steak, and kill yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The waitress came and we ordered.

The halibut wasn’t that bad with a bottle of local chardonnay.

When we got back to the room, I saw that the message light still wasn’t lit.

I didn’t need to speak to Felix Mancuso, but if there was one person in law enforcement who understood this case – not only the facts and the history, but also the human element of what had happened ten years ago – it was this man, who’d not only tried to save my soul from a great evil, but who also had been troubled by his colleagues acting as pimps for don Bellarosa.

Well, for all I knew, Mancuso was retired, transferred, or dead, but if he wasn’t any of those things, then I knew I’d hear from him.

Susan and I went out on the balcony and looked at the ocean. On the distant horizon I could see the lights of great ocean liners and cargo ships, and overhead, aircraft were beginning their descent into Kennedy Airport, or climbing out on their way to Europe, or the world.

Susan asked me, “Do you think you want to sail again?”

I replied, “Well, what good is a yacht club without a yacht?”

She smiled, then said, seriously, “I never want you to sail alone again.”

I hadn’t been completely alone, but I understood what she meant and replied, “I won’t sail without you.”

She stayed quiet awhile, and we listened to the surf washing against the shore, and I stared, transfixed by the night sky and the black ocean.

She asked me, “How was it?”

I continued to look out into the dark, starry night, and replied, “Lonely.” I thought a moment, then said, “It’s easy to imagine out there, at night, that you are the last man left alive on earth.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Sometimes. But most of the time I felt… as though it was just me and God. I mean, you can go a little crazy out there, but it’s not necessarily a bad kind of crazy.” I added, “You have a lot of time to think, and you get to know yourself.”

“And did you think about me?”

“I did. I honestly did. Every day, and every night.”

“So what stopped you from setting a course for home?”

There were a lot of answers to that question – anger, pride, spite, and the total freedom of being a self-exiled man without a country or a job. But, to Susan, I said, “When I know, I’ll let you know.”

We stretched out in the lounge chairs and watched the sky, then fell asleep under the stars.

Through my sleep, I heard the ocean, felt the sea breeze, and smelled the salt air, and I dreamed I was back at sea. But this time, Susan was with me.