The Gate House

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

It was ten minutes past five, and the rain had arrived, though the Stanhopes had not. But Susan assured me, “They called ten minutes ago, and they just got off the Expressway.” She gave me an ETA of fifteen minutes, which was more than enough time for my second Dewar’s and soda.

Susan and I were in the kitchen, and Sophie had laid out hors d’oeuvres on the center island, which I wasn’t allowed to touch. Also, the caterer had arrived, and she and Susan had planned a few menus for the week. Plus, Sophie was going to live in the downstairs maid’s room for the next five days. This was a convenience for Susan, of course, but it also gave William and Charlotte someone to boss around besides their daughter, and it might even ensure that we’d keep our voices down if we all got into a screaming match.

The phone rang, and Susan spoke to someone and said, “Yes, we’re expecting them.” Susan hung up and said to me, “It’s the florist, finally.” She informed me, “There are guards now at the gates.”

I didn’t comment on that, though I did note all this preparation for the arrival of Mom and Dad. But I recalled, from my last life here, that William and Charlotte never seemed to notice or appreciate all that Susan did for them when they came to visit. Well, they were demanding parents, but yet they spoke of Peter as if he were the perfect child. In fact, he was a useless turd, but he knew how to butter up Mom and Dad, and he knew where his bread came from.

My other thought was that Susan was far too optimistic about her parents actually staying here. She’d had their old guest room cleaned and stocked with bottled water and snacks, and I was sure there were flowers for their room. I looked at Susan, and though I didn’t want her parents here, neither did I want her to be disappointed or hurt. I said to her, “Look, Susan, why don’t I go to a hotel-?”

“No. You are my future husband and the father of our children. You are staying here with me, Edward, and Carolyn.”

“But-”

“But I do want you to disappear until I get a drink into their hands.” She suggested, “Wait in the office with the door closed, and I’ll buzz you on the intercom. About fifteen or twenty minutes after they arrive.”

“They’ll see my car when they pull up.”

“I’ll tell them it’s my second car.”

“They’ll see that there are guards in the gatehouse and that I couldn’t be living there.”

“All right, do you want to greet them with me?”

“No, Susan, I want to leave. I’ll be back-”

“You are not leaving.” She explained, “You’re just hiding for a while.”

“All right.” So I grabbed a napkinful of hors d’oeuvres and my Scotch, then I looked at her and said, “Good luck.”

“John, just remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Half of a hundred million dollars.”

I smiled, and carried my hideout rations into the office and closed the door. The blinds were open, and I could see the florist van pull up. I watched as two men unloaded enough flower arrangements to bury an Italian funeral home.

I lowered the blinds so that William and Charlotte didn’t get a peek at their future son-in-law, and sat at the desk and checked my e-mail, ate hors d’oeuvres, and sipped my Scotch.

Susan had called Mr. Mancuso, and she told me that he’d given her some assurances, some advice, and also some of the same information about Anthony’s disappearance that he’d given me. He’d also told her that he was impressed with her courage, but that she needed to balance that with some extra vigilance, and so forth. Apparently, according to Susan, they were now good buddies, which made me happy.

I had not told Susan about running into Tony because she had enough on her mind, but right after the incident I had called Felix Mancuso using Susan’s cell phone, and I left him a message on his voice mail relating my intemperate remarks to Anthony’s driver. I suggested that he or someone from his office might want to question Tony regarding his boss’s whereabouts, if they hadn’t done so already. I had also informed Mancuso that Amir Nasim was in the process of installing a full security system at Stanhope Hall that would rival whatever they had in place at 26 Federal Plaza, which was the address on Special Agent Mancuso’s card. I suggested, too, that he might consider updating Detective Nastasi, or I’d do that if the FBI and the local police were not sharing information this week.

I’m good at covering all my bases, and my ass, and my brain works well when my life is in danger.

Anyway, I checked through almost two weeks of e-mail, most of it from clients in London who couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that I was on an extended sabbatical, which reminded me that I needed to inform my firm of my decision to resign. And I also needed to inform Samantha of my decision to resign from her.

I should phone, but it was past 11:00 P.M. in London, so maybe I should just e-mail and get that over with, but that wasn’t the right thing to do… and, I thought, maybe I should wait to see what happened in the next thirty minutes. I mean, it could get ugly, but I knew that Susan would, as she said, put her priorities in order. The problem was, she had several priorities: me, the children, and the money, and they might be mutually exclusive.

So it might have to be me who needed to put the priorities in order, and by that I meant I might bow out if it came down to John or half the hundred million. Not to mention the children’s trust funds and Susan’s allowance.

While I was thinking about being noble and selfless, I could hear the florists going in and out the front door, and Susan giving them instructions in that upper-class tone of voice that was polite but unquestionably authoritative.

How, I wondered, was this woman going to live without money? I mean, those fucking flowers cost more than most people made in a month. Not to mention the stupid froufrou hors d’oeuvres, and the caterer, and Sophie… well, why think about that now? We had more serious problems, like staying alive.

I sent a few e-mails to friends in London, but I didn’t mention anything about quitting my job, relocating to New York, marrying my ex-wife, or the Mafia trying to kill me. Some of that could get back to my firm, or to Samantha. I mean, I was ready to burn my bridges, but if I somehow found that I needed to re-cross the pond, then I’d need that bridge.

I had e-mailed my sister, Emily, who was still living on some beach in Texas with boyfriend number four or five. Emily and I are close, despite our long geographic separations for the last dozen years. I’d told her about Ethel’s passing, and then gave her the good news about Susan and me.

I pulled up her reply, which said: Wonderful. Love, Emily P.S. Wonderful. P.P.S. I’ll miss Ethel’s funeral, but I will not miss John and Susan’s wedding. Let’s speak when you get a chance.

I replied: You are wonderful. Life is wonderful. Will call you when I can. Love, John P.S. The Stanhopes will arrive momentarily. Not so wonderful. But maybe good for a few laughs.

Regarding that, the doorbell rang. I peeked out the blinds and saw next to my blue Taurus another blue Taurus that I was certain was the Stanhopes’ rental car. I had this wonderful vision of William and Charlotte driving their blue Taurus through the gates onto Grace Lane and being met by a stream of machine-gun fire.

I could hear Susan exclaim, “Welcome!”

William the Terrible said, “Damned traffic in New York – how can you live here?”

Charlotte chirped, “It’s so wonderful to see you, darling!”

And so forth.

The happy voices disappeared down the corridor, and I turned back to the keyboard and began typing an e-mail to Edward and Carolyn: Hi! Your grandparents have unfortunately arrived safely… delete that… Grandma and Grandpa have just arrived, and I’m hiding… delete… G and G just got here, and I haven’t yet said hello, so I’ll keep this short. Remember, when you get here, that your mother and I love you very much, and we love each other, and we will all try to make Grandpa and Grandma feel welcome and loved, and even Uncle Peter, that useless… delete… who may be joining us. Your mother and I will try to call you tomorrow, and let you know how things are going, or call us. Edward, if we don’t speak, have a safe flight. Carolyn, let us know what train you’re taking. Love, Dad. P.S. Your grandparents are worth a hundred million dollars dead… delete.

I read the e-mail, not sure if I should send it. I mean, Edward and Carolyn knew there would be some friction between me and their grandparents, and the children were adults, so I needed to treat them as such and give them a heads-up. My letter seemed positive, but they’d understand the subtle hint that there could be a problem when they got here. I had no idea what Susan had told them on this subject, if anything, but I needed to be proactive, so I pushed the send button and off it went into cyberspace.

To kill time, I went online and typed in in-laws, perfect murders of, and actually got a few hits.

Next I went onto a Web site that an American client had told me about, which showed aerial views of homes and commercial properties around the country. I’d actually used this site once in my work for an American client, and I’d even checked out Stanhope Hall and Alhambra a few months ago during a nostalgia attack.

Within a minute I had an aerial view of Stanhope Hall taken this past winter, which showed me just how huge the main house was. I could also see the hedge maze, the love temple, the tennis court, the plum orchard, and even the overgrown burned-out ruins of Susan’s childhood playhouse, which was about half the size of a real cottage.

I zoomed in on the gatehouse, then moved to the guest cottage and the nearby stables. Then I shifted the view toward Alhambra, and I could see the long, straight line of white pines that separated the estates, and I thought of Susan’s horseback rides from Stanhope Hall to the Alhambra villa.

This photograph, of recent vintage, did not show Bellarosa’s razed villa, of course, or the mock Roman ruins, or the reflecting pool; it showed the red-tiled roofs of the new mini-villas and their landscaping, and the roads that connected them.

I zoomed in on Anthony’s house with the big patio and the oversized pool, then I moved the view back toward the pine trees and the Stanhope estate, and the guest cottage.

On the ground, it was a circuitous route from Susan’s cottage to Anthony’s villa, but from the air, as I suspected, it was only about five or six hundred yards – a third of a mile – between the two houses.

Note to self: If I was jogging cross-country to Anthony Bellarosa’s house, I could be there in less than five minutes; and it was the same traveling time if Anthony Bellarosa was coming this way.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The intercom buzzed, and I picked up the phone and asked, “Did they faint or leave?”

“Neither. But they’re over their initial shock.”

“Are they ready for another shock when I tell them we’re not entering into a prenuptial agreement?”

“Let’s limit it to one shock a day. It’s your turn tomorrow.”

“All right. Where are you?”

“I’m in the kitchen, making them martini number two, but I’ll be in the living room in a minute.” She said, “I’ve made you a stiff drink.”

“Good. See you there.”

I walked out of the office into the foyer. I took a minute to recall twenty years of their bullshit, then I entered the living room.

William and Charlotte were sitting near the fireplace in side-by-side chairs, and Susan was sitting on a love seat across from them. Between them was a coffee table covered with plates of hors d’oeuvres, and I could see that William and Charlotte had fresh martinis in front of them, and Susan had a white wine.

I considered running toward them with my arms out, yelling, “Mom! Dad!” but instead I said simply, “Hello,” and walked toward them.

Susan stood, then William and Charlotte rose without enthusiasm.

I first kissed Susan, to piss them off, then I extended my hand to Charlotte, who gave me a wet noodle, then to William, who gave me a cold tuna. I asked, “So, did you have a good flight?”

William replied, “Good enough.”

Susan said, “Sit here, John, next to me. I’ve made you a vodka and tonic.”

“Thank you.” I sat next to Susan on the love seat, and she took my hand, which came to Mom and Dad’s immediate notice and made them wince.

Schubert was playing softly in the background, and the room was lit with candles and adorned with flowers. Sort of like a funeral home.

I sipped my drink and discovered it was pure tonic.

William the Color Blind was wearing silly green trousers, an awful yellow golf shirt, and a shocking pink linen sports jacket. Charlotte had on pale pink pants and a puke green blouse, and they both wore these horrid white orthopedic walking shoes. I’m surprised they were allowed to board the aircraft.

William, I noticed, really hadn’t aged much in ten years, and he had a full head of hair and was still using the same hair coloring. Charlotte’s face had aged a lot, with a network of deep wrinkles that looked like cracked house paint. She’d let her hair go naturally bright red, and she was wearing earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet all made of coral and seashells, giving her the appearance of a dry aquarium. Neither one of them had gained much weight, and both of them were amazingly pasty-faced for golfers, as though they used whitewash for sunblock.

I said to them, “You’re both looking very well.”

William did not return the compliment but said, “Thank you. We feel well.”

It’s here where the senior citizen usually gives you a complete medical report, and while this usually bores me senseless, in this case I was anxious to hear about any ailments, no matter how small or insignificant; you never know what could develop into something fatal at that age. But they weren’t sharing their medical history with me, except that Charlotte said, “Our internist said we could live to be a hundred.”

That bastard.

Susan addressed the big subject and said, “John, I’ve told Mom and Dad that we are getting remarried, and I also told them how happy Edward and Carolyn are for us.”

I said to Mom and Dad, “My mother, too, is delighted. And Ethel, right before she passed away said to us, ‘Now, I can go in peace, knowing – ’” I felt Susan’s nails dig into my hand, so I cooled that, and said, “Susan and I have thought long and hard about this” – since we had sex on Sunday – “and we’ve discussed all aspects of our remarriage, and we are certain this is what we want to do.”

Susan reminded me, “And we’re in love, John.”

I said, “And we’re in love.”

Neither Mom nor Dad had anything to say about any of that, so Susan continued, “As I said to you before John joined us, I understand that this comes as a surprise to you, and I understand why you have some doubts and reservations, but we are certain about our love for each other.”

William and Charlotte sat there as though their hearing aids had died, and they simultaneously reached for their martinis and took a good slug.

Susan continued, “John and I have discussed all that happened in the past, and we’ve put that behind us, and we hope that we can all move forward. We feel that the past has taught us what is important, and whatever mistakes we’ve made have taught us invaluable lessons, which we’ll use to strengthen our love and our family.”

William and Charlotte finished their martinis.

I guess it was my turn, so I said, “I’m sure you want Susan to be happy, and I believe I can make her happy.” It was time for my mea culpa, and I said, “I made many mistakes during our marriage, and I take most of the blame for what happened between us, but I want you to know, I’ve grown as a person, and I’ve become more sensitive to Susan’s needs and wants, and I’ve strengthened my coping skills, and learned how to manage my anger, and-” Again, the nails in my hand. So I concluded, “I could give you a hundredmillion reasons” – or half of that – “why I think I can be a good husband to Susan, and a hundred million reasons why-”

“John.”

“What?”

“I think Mom and Dad may want you to address what happened the last time we were all together.”

“Right. I was getting to that.” As I recalled, we were in an Italian restaurant in Locust Valley, and William had just sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa, and William was asking me to draw up the contract of sale, for free, and then he was going to stick me with the restaurant bill, as he always did, and I’d had about all the crap I was going to take from him, so I called him-

“John.”

“Right.” I looked at William, then at Charlotte, and said, “One of the major regrets of my life has been my words to you, William, when we last had dinner together. My outburst was totally unacceptable and unprovoked. My words, which spewed forth from my mouth, like… well, that bad fra diavolo… anyway, if I could take those words back – or eat them – I would. But I can’t, so I can only offer my most sincere and abject apology to you and to Charlotte for you having to hear that stream of vile obscenities, and to Susan, too, for having to witness the three people she loved most…” I was losing the sentence structure, so I concluded, “Please accept my apology.”

There were a few seconds of silence, then William said, “I have never been spoken to like that in all my life.”

Really?

Charlotte said, “That was so hurtful.”

Maybe they needed another martini. Well, I’d promised Susan I’d apologize, and I did, but these two shitheads were having none of it. Nevertheless, I gave it the old Yale try and said, “You don’t know how many times I sat down to write you a letter of apology, but I could never form the words on paper that were in my heart. But now that I can deliver these words of apology to you – from the same mouth that disgorged those coarse, vulgar, crude, and profane words… now, I hope that you can see and hear that my apology is from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

I could see that William, even with two martinis in his dim brain, was sensing that I was having a little fun with this. Charlotte, who is truly dim, takes everything literally.

Finally, William said, “I was stunned, John, that a son-in-law of mine, a man whose parents I respect, would use that kind of language – in a public place, or anywhere for that matter, and to use it in the presence of ladies.” And so forth.

I hung my head and listened to him go on. Obviously, William had hoped for this day, and he was going to squeeze every ounce of petty pleasure out of it.

Finally, Susan interrupted him and said, “Dad, John has asked you to accept his apology.”

William looked at her and then at me and said, “Charlotte and I will discuss this. And be aware, John, that we don’t dispense forgiveness as easily and as lightly as do so many young people today.” He let me know, “Forgiveness can be asked for, but it has to be earned.”

I took a deep breath and replied, “I hope I can earn your forgiveness.”

“It’s not a matter of hope, John, it’s a matter of working at it.”

All right, fuckhead. “That’s what I meant.”

Susan said, “Let me freshen your drinks.” She took their glasses and said to me, “Give me a hand, John.”

I stood and followed her into the kitchen.

She said to me, “Thank you.”

I didn’t reply.

“I know that was difficult, but you did it.”

“It came from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

“I think it came from your spleen.”

“I thought you said they mellowed.”

“No, I told you I lied about that.”

“Right.”

Susan took the Boodles out of the freezer and said, “This stuff isn’t working.”

“It will. One martini, two martini, three martini, floor.” I said, “There’s no vodka in my tonic.”

“You will thank me for that.”

“I just need one more to get through this.”

“You’re doing great.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But don’t overdo it. You’re borderline sarcastic.”

“Me?” I asked her, “Would we be going through this if they weren’t rich?”

She poured the gin into both glasses and replied, “If they weren’t rich, they wouldn’t be so difficult.”

“We’ll never know.”

“And please do not use the words ‘a hundred million’ again.”

“I was just trying to quantify-”

“Remember the children. I don’t care about us, but I do care about them.”

I thought a moment and said, “I don’t want our children to lose their self-respect or their souls for a pot of gold.”

“No. That’s our job.”

I asked her, “Where are Mom and Dad sleeping tonight?”

“It hasn’t come up.”

“Do they know I’m sleeping here with you?”

“Well… Dad commented on the guards in the gatehouse, but I don’t think he’s put two and two together yet.” She added, “When the time comes, we should all just say good night and not make a big thing of it.”

“All right. And what are our dinner plans?”

“Well, we all go to the funeral home, then I’ll suggest we come back here for a light supper. Unless they’d rather go to a restaurant.”

“How about that Italian restaurant in Locust Valley where we had the last supper?”

She laughed and said, “Okay, but don’t skip out on the bill this time.”

“Ah! That’s why he’s still pissed off.”

Susan poured a touch of dry vermouth in each glass, added an olive, and said, “Let’s get back so they don’t think we’re talking about them.”

“They’re talking about us.”

She put both glasses on a silver tray, handed it to me, and said, “You do the honors.”

I started for the door, then stopped and said to her, “If this doesn’t work out by Sunday, I never want to see those two again. Understand?”

“It will work. You will make it work.”

I continued on, back through the foyer and into the living room, where I said, cheerfully, “Here we go! And there’s more where that came from.”

They took their glasses, tasted their martinis, and William said, “Susan makes a perfect martini.”

“And I didn’t spill a drop,” I said proudly.

Susan raised her glass of wine and said, “Let me again say how happy I am that you’re here, where we all once lived in beautiful Stanhope Hall, and even though it’s a sad occasion, I know that Ethel is looking down on us, smiling as she sees us all together again.”

That almost brought a tear to my eye, and I said, “Hear, hear.”

We didn’t touch glasses, but we did raise them and everyone drank.

I had the feeling that William and Charlotte had spent the last five minutes congratulating each other for being such assholes, and also coordinating an attack on John.

Along those lines, William said to his daughter, “I saw Dan’s son, Bob, the other day at the club, and he passes on his regards.”

Susan replied, “That’s nice.”

“He told me again how happy you’d made his father in his last years.”

Susan did not reply.

It was Charlotte’s turn, and she said, “We all miss Dan so much. He was always the life of the party.”

William chuckled and added, “And did he ever love to golf. And he made you love the game, Susan. You were getting quite good.” He inquired, “Are you golfing here?”

“No.”

“Well, once it’s in your blood – I’ll bet Dan is up there golfing twice a day.”

Charlotte said to Susan, “You left those beautiful clubs he bought you. Would you like us to send them?”

“No, thank you.”

I wanted to snap their scrawny necks, of course, but I just sat there, listening to them updating Susan on all the news from Hilton Head, and continuing to drop Dan’s name whenever possible.

Susan should have suggested to them that I might not want to hear about her dearly departed husband, but these two were so off the chart that I suppose it didn’t matter. Also, of course, they’d be in a better mood if I ate all the shit they were shoveling.

Meanwhile, my only past sin had been not putting up with their crap, but their daughter had committed adultery and murder, and it was I who had to apologize to them for calling William an unprincipled asshole, an utterly cynical bastard, a conniving fuck, and a monumental prick. Or was it prick, then fuck? Whatever, it was all true.

Susan could sense I was simmering and about to boil over, as I’d done ten years ago in the restaurant, so she interrupted her father and said, “Edward and Carolyn will be here tomorrow night, and they’re so excited to see you.”

Charlotte said, “We’re so looking forward to seeing them.” She remembered to ask, “How are they doing?”

Do you really give a damn? I mean, I had assumed they’d already had this conversation, but I saw now that they hadn’t even asked about their only grandchildren. What swine.

Susan filled them in on Edward and Carolyn, but I could see that Grandma and Grandpa were only mildly interested, as though Susan were talking about someone else’s grandchildren.

We exhausted that topic, so William turned to me and inquired, “How about you, John? How are you doing in London?”

He really didn’t give a rat’s ass about how I was doing in London, and I recognized the question – from long experience – as a prelude to something less solicitous.

I replied, “London is fine.”

“Are you working?” he asked.

I replied, “I’ve always worked.”

He reminded me, “You took a three-year sail around the world,” then he generously conceded, “Well, I suppose that’s a lot of work.”

I wanted to invite him to take a long sail with me, but he’d figure out that he wasn’t coming back. I said, “It was challenging.”

“I’m sure it was.” He smiled and inquired, “So, did you have a woman in every port?”

I replied, “That is an improper question to ask me in front of your daughter.”

Well, that sort of stopped the show, but Susan jumped in and said, “Dad, the past is behind us.”

William, like all cowards, backed off and said, “Well, I didn’t mean to touch on a sore subject.”

Susan assured him, “It is not a sore subject. It is a closed subject.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Sensitive. Then he had the gall to ask me, “How is it that you haven’t remarried after all these years, John?”

“I dated only married women.”

William didn’t think that was so funny, but Charlotte seemed satisfied with my explanation, though she commented, “It sounds like you wasted all those years on women who were not eligible.”

Susan asked, “Can I get you both another drink?”

Mom and Dad shook their heads, and William informed us, “We limit ourselves to three martinis.”

A minute? I pointed out, “You’ve only had two.”

“We had one before you got here.”

“That doesn’t count.” I added, “I hate to drink alone.”

“Well… all right,” he acquiesced.

I stood to run off and make two more, but Sophie poked her head in and asked Susan, “Do you need anything?”

William, who treats household help like indentured servants, replied, “Two more martinis and clear some of these plates and bring fresh ones and clean napkins.” Then, to Susan, he said, “Show her how to make a martini.”

Susan stood, Sophie cleared the plates, and they left. Then Charlotte excused herself to use the facilities, and I found myself alone with William.

We looked at each other, and I could see his yellow eyes narrowing and the horns peeking through his hair. Smoke came out of his nostrils, and his orthopedic shoes split open, revealing cloven hoofs, and then he reached down the back of his pants and played with his spaded tail.

Or maybe I was imagining that. His eyes, however, did narrow.

Neither of us spoke, then finally he said to me, “This does not make us happy, John.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But your daughter is happy.”

“She may think she’s happy.” He let me know, “Susan was lonely after Dan died, and she became quite upset after the terrorist attacks, and for the last several months she’s been dwelling on the past.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “So, what I’m saying to you, John, is that she’s not herself, and what you’re seeing now is not what you might be seeing a few months from now.”

I replied, “I appreciate your not wanting me to make a mistake, and I’m touched by your concern for my future.”

His eyes narrowed again, and he said, “We actually don’t care for you.”

“Was it something I said?”

“And we don’t think that Susan does either.” He explained, “She’s confused.” He further explained, “We know our daughter, and we think she’s just going through a stage of life, which will pass.”

“Then you should tell her what you think of her mental state. Or I will.”

He leaned toward me, and in a quiet voice said, “We will need to discuss this, John, man to man.”

“I’m happy to do that.” But bring your own man, shithead; I’m not hiring one for you.

William got to the crux of the matter and said, “People in our position – I mean, Charlotte and I – have to be very careful in regard to acceptable suitors for our daughter.” He asked, “Are you following me?”

“Of course. You want her to be happy.”

“No – Well, yes, of course we do. But I’m speaking about… well, money.”

“Money? What does this have to do with money?” I assured him, “We’ll pay for our own wedding.”

He seemed frustrated with my dullness, but continued patiently, “I have no idea how you’re doing financially, but I’m sure that Susan’s annual allowance, and her future inheritance, has influenced your thinking. Now, don’t take that the wrong way, John. I’m sure you think you’re fond of her, but quite frankly, I think you both divorced for the right reasons – you were unsuitable for each other – and you stayed away from each other for ten years because of that. So now the question is, why are you courting her again, and why have you proposed marriage?”

It was more the other way around, but I was gentleman enough not to say that. I said, “William, if you’re suggesting that I’m a gold digger, I am truly offended.”

“John, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that your thinking and your feelings may be influenced by those considerations – subconsciously, of course.”

“Well, you raise an interesting point… so, you think that, subconsciously… well, I guess I need to think about that.” I admitted, “I wouldn’t want to think I was marrying for love, when deep down inside it was for money.”

I may have crossed the sarcasm line, but William gave me a pass and leaned even closer to me, and said bluntly, “Perhaps we can discuss some financial arrangement that would induce you to move back to London.”

If he was talking about the measly one hundred thousand dollars that he offered to all Susan’s suitors, then I was insulted. Even two hundred thousand dollars was an insult. It would have to be seven figures.

“John?”

I looked at him, and I realized that if I told him to go fuck himself, the rest of the week could be a bit rocky. But if I played along, that would make him a happy houseguest, and after we’d finished our Father’s Day dinner, I could then tell him to go fuck himself. Or maybe I should wait until Edward left on Monday morning. Go fuck yourself has to be timed just right.

He said, “I hope you will think about this.”

“I will. I mean, not about the financial… But about what you said regarding Susan’s being confused and not herself.” I feigned deep thought, then nodded to myself and came to a reluctant conclusion. I said, “I wouldn’t want her to make a mistake about us remarrying… and then be unhappy.”

“No, John, we don’t want that.”

“So… well, then maybe we should” – bright idea – “live together.”

Poor William. He thought that my spinning wheels were going to stop at three lemons, and I’d get up and go home. He cleared his throat and said, “I was speaking of a financial inducement for you to return to London.”

“Oh… right. Well… I don’t want to hurt Susan by leaving… but I also don’t want to hurt her by entering into a doomed marriage…”

William assured me, “You would both be much happier in the long term if you separated now.” He advised me, “It needs to be quick, merciful, and final.”

This sort of reminded me of the deal I made with Frank Bellarosa. Anyway, I took a deep breath – actually, it was a sigh, and said, “I need to think about this.”

William smelled a deal and said, “I’d like your answer by Sunday, or Monday morning before we leave, at the latest.”

“All right.” I inquired sheepishly, “About that financial inducement…”

“We can discuss that when we speak.”

“Well… it would help me now to know how much I’m being induced.”

William himself didn’t know how much he wanted to spend to ensure his only daughter’s happiness. And he didn’t know what my price was to tear myself away from the love of my life. He did know, however, that I was very aware that he could cut off Susan’s allowance and disinherit her. So that lowered her value, and lowered my price to dump a Stanhope.

I could see him struggling with this, pissed off beyond belief that Susan was going to cost him a wad of cash. And of course he was pissed off at me for lots of reasons, including my getting any of his money. Maybe he’d reduce her allowance to amortize the payoff.

Finally, he asked, “What do you have in mind?”

“How does two million sound?”

I thought he was going to fall face first into the baked brie, but he caught his breath and mumbled, “Perhaps we can agree on half of that – but paid in ten annual installments, so that your inducement is ongoing.”

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. But if I got it all up front, I wouldn’t renege on the deal. I give you my word on that.”

“I would want a written contract.”

“Right. Like a non-nuptial agreement.”

“And non-cohabitation.”

“Of course.” I love to do deals, so I said, “But if I got it all up front, I’d discount the two million.”

“I think we need to discuss that number, and the terms. Later.”

“What are you doing after dinner?”

But before he could respond, Susan and Sophie returned, and William, gentleman that he is, stood and, while he was up anyway, grabbed a martini off Susan’s tray.

Sophie rearranged the coffee table and left. Susan sat and asked, “Where’s Mom?”

William said, “Freshening up.”

Susan took stock of the situation and inquired, with a smile, “Have you had a good man-to-man talk?”

William replied, “We were just discussing what’s going on here at Stanhope Hall.”

I looked at William, and I could see that he was a bit more relaxed now, maybe even hopeful that his worst nightmare might be ending before it began. I considered winking at him and flashing two fingers – Victory – and not at any price; only two million.

Charlotte returned, took her seat, and scooped up her martini.

Susan, thinking that she was continuing with our subject of Stanhope Hall, said, “As I mentioned in my e-mail, the owner, Amir Nasim, has some security concerns, so he’s hired a security firm to advise him of what needs to be done.”

William inquired, “What sort of security concerns?”

Susan explained, “He’s originally from Iran, and his wife told me that he has enemies in that country, who may want to harm him.”

Charlotte was now licking the bottom of her martini glass, and she stopped in mid-lick and said, “Oh, my.”

William, always thinking of himself, asked me, “Do you think there’s any danger to us?” Meaning him.

I replied, “No one is likely to mistake the guest cottage for Stanhope Hall, or mistake Mr. and Mrs. Nasim for any of us.”

William agreed, and said, stupidly, “Well, maybe we’ll have a little excitement here.”

No one laughed or slapped their knees, but I did say, “If you’d feel more comfortable elsewhere, Susan can inquire about the cottages at The Creek.”

Susan chimed in, “I don’t think we should overreact, John.”

I didn’t reply, but I did note that neither William nor Charlotte expressed any concern about their daughter and their grandchildren.

William did say, however, “When we lived in Stanhope Hall, we never even locked our doors.” He looked at his zoned-out wife and asked, “Did we, darling?”

“We did,” Charlotte agreed, or disagreed, depending on what she thought he said.

I was actually glad I was drinking hundred-proof tonic because I was better able to appreciate William and Charlotte with a clear head.

Susan reminded them of why they were in New York, and said, “I am feeling so sad about Ethel. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone.”

Charlotte remarked, “The poor dear. I hope she didn’t suffer at the end.”

And so we spoke about the departed Ethel for a few minutes, recalling many happy memories, and, of course, not recalling that Ethel was a pain in the ass. Charlotte did say, however, with a smile, “She was a stubborn woman.” Still smiling, she remarked, “Sometimes I wondered who was mistress and who was servant.”

Susan reminded her, “We don’t use those words any longer, Mother.”

“Oh, Susan. No one minds.”

I noticed that William had nothing to say about Ethel, good or bad, and he just sat there, perhaps thinking about his father fucking Ethel, then Ethel fucking his father.

I thought this might be a good time to straighten out the mistress thing – about Ethel being Augustus’ mistress; so of course Ethel was a mistress, but not the mistress of Stanhope Hall. I mean, she was dead, and so was Augustus, so to liven up the conversation, I said to Charlotte and William, “I was going through Ethel’s paperwork, and I found the life tenancy conveyance among her papers, and that got me wondering why Augustus conveyed such a valuable consideration to two young employees, who-”

“John,” said Susan, “I think we should get ready.” She looked at her watch and said, “I’d like to be at the funeral home at seven.” She stood.

Well, I should save this for when there were more people around to appreciate it, so I stood, and so did Mom and Dad, who swayed a bit.

Susan said to me, “Mom and Dad’s luggage is still in their car. Would you mind getting it?”

“Not at all, darling.”

William already had his keys in his hand, which he gave to me, and said, “Thank you, John.” I guess that meant he wasn’t going to help. Well, then, I wasn’t going to discount the two million.

I went out into the rain, retrieved their cheap luggage, which looked like a bank giveaway, and hauled it up the stairs to their room.

They weren’t in their room yet, so I didn’t get a tip, and I left the luggage on two racks that Susan had set up. Then I went to the master bedroom, where Susan was getting undressed, and I inquired, “Do we have time for a quickie?”

She smiled, and asked, “Is that the alcohol talking?”

“Very funny.” I commented, “Those two put away half a bottle of gin.”

“They were very tense, and I think upset.” She observed, “But Dad seemed much less upset after the third one got to him.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

She inquired, “What did you two talk about?”

I considered telling her that her father had tried to buy me off, and I would tell her… but if I did that now, she might be upset. It was better, I thought, to have her think that her father’s better mood was alcohol-induced. And tomorrow, when she saw that Dad and I were getting along tolerably well – without the martinis – she’d be happy, and her happiness would spread like sunshine over all of us, including Edward and Carolyn.

And then, Sunday after dinner, or Monday morning, after the children were gone, and before Scrooge McDuck headed south, I’d ask Susan what she thought was a fair price for me to accept from Dad for going back to London. Well, I might present it differently, such as, “Your father had the nerve to offer me a bribe to leave you. I have never in my life been so insulted.” And so on.

After she got over her shock, I’d tell her he offered me two million dollars, but that I wouldn’t leave her for less than five. I mean, that’s serious money. I could actually live off the interest, as the Stanhopes did.

Susan sat at her makeup table and did some touch-ups. She said to me, “That actually went better than I expected. And I thank you again for being… nice.”

“It’s easy to be nice to nice people.”

She thought that was funny, but then advised me, “Cool the borderline sarcasm. They’re not that dense.”

“You think?”

“And do not bring up Ethel Allard’s life tenancy in the gatehouse.” She asked, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”

“You know it is.” She further advised, “You need to find less obnoxious ways to amuse yourself.”

“Okay. How about a quickie?”

“John, we’re going to a wake.” She glanced at her watch and asked, “How quick?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

William and Charlotte would have blown the needle off a Breathalyzer, so I drove. I’d left the carbine home so the Stanhopes wouldn’t see it, and also so I wouldn’t be tempted to shoot them.

Susan, sitting next to me, was looking good in black, but she was in a quiet, post-coital, pre-funeral home mood.

The Stanhopes, in the rear seat of the Lexus, had changed out of their tropical bird costumes and were also wearing black, which made them look like buzzards. The car, by the way, smelled of gin, and I was getting a little tipsy.

I had no doubt that William had told his wife about our private discussion, putting his own spin on it, and now they were turning this over in their tiny, alcohol-soaked brains.

Well, three of us knew that we were negotiating for Susan Stanhope Sutter, who didn’t even know she was for sale.

Anyway, despite a long and draining day, and what promised to be a long evening, I was in a chipper mood. Maybe I thrive on danger, conflict, and bullshit. Plus, of course, I just got laid. And I didn’t get laid with just anyone – no, I had sex with Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope’s daughter, which made it so much more enjoyable. That’s a little perverse, I know, but at least I’m aware of that, and it’s really low on the kinky scale, and not worth examining too much.

And of course, if Mom and Dad were paying attention, they realized I was sharing their daughter’s bedroom. And if they had been lingering outside our door, they also knew why we were fifteen minutes late.

No one seemed to have much to say as I drove up to Locust Valley, so to liven up the mood, I said, “Let me buy dinner tonight. There’s a nice Italian place in Locust Valley that I haven’t been to in ten years.”

“John.”

“Yes, darling?”

Susan informed me, “Mom and Dad have had a long day, so we’re having a quiet supper at home.”

“Excellent idea, sweetheart. I’m sorry I missed that memo.”

“Now you know.”

William and Charlotte seemed unusually quiet, so I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw they’d both nodded off and missed my generous offer to buy dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant. I asked Susan, “What was the name of that place? Vaffanculo?”

She leaned toward me and whispered, “Behave. This is too important for you to screw it up with your childish humor.”

“Sorry.”

“You were doing so well. Can’t you control yourself?”

“I try, but sometimes I can’t resist-”

“This is not about you. It’s about Edward and Carolyn. And us.”

Susan, of course, didn’t know that I had some power over dear Dad now, but that power would disappear the minute I told William to take his offer and shove it up his culo. So I was looking forward to tweaking him for a few days, but I’d have to do it when Susan wasn’t around.

“John? Do you understand?”

I held up two fingers, which she took to mean “Peace,” and she said, “Thank you.” On Monday, I’d explain that it meant two million dollars.

To be a little objective here, I understood that William, as a father, thought he was trying to do the best for his daughter. But he was also a control freak, and he had no clue about what was really best for Susan. Plus, of course, he hated me without justification. Well… we just never clicked. So this was about him. And instead of him talking to Susan, then to me, he got right down to offering me money to take a hike. And why would he think that John Whitman Sutter would take his money? Even after all these years, he had no idea who I was.

And on that subject, I would insist on a prenuptial agreement that gave me nothing more than what I came into the marriage with, meaning nothing. That should make the old bastard happy, but more importantly, it made me happy to know that I was going to remarry Susan for the right reason. Love. Well… maybe a new boat. In case I had to leave again.

Anyway, I was feeling like I was standing on the pinnacle of the moral high ground; my heart was pure, and my wallet was empty. So I should at least be allowed to have a little fun with the Stanhopes before they left.

I looked at both of them in the rearview mirror. Maybe they were dead. Well, we were going to the right place.

As we approached the funeral home, Susan said, “I know you don’t like wakes. No one does, but-”

“Depends on who’s in the coffin.”

“But try not to show how bored you are, and try to act appropriately.”

“I’ve grown up a lot in the last ten years.”

“Then this is a good time to demonstrate that.”

“I’ll make you proud to be with me.”

She smiled, took my hand, and said, “I was always proud of you, even when you acted like an idiot.”

“That’s very sweet.”

She leaned toward me, kissed my cheek, and said, “You look so handsome in that black suit.”

I pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home and said, “Thank you. Maybe I can get a job here.”

I realized that the Stanhopes were awake, and I wondered how much of our conversation they’d heard. They weren’t exactly hopeless romantics, but clearly they could see and hear that Susan and I were in love – despite her criticisms of my core personality. Well, Willie, if you don’t get it, then I feel sorry for you, and for Charlotte. They could really make life easier for themselves, and for us, if they’d just say, “We’re happy for you. Have a wonderful life.”

But they, like me, carried around too many grudges and grievances – but unlike me, they were deep down mean-spirited. And at the end of the day, this is where it all ends – at the funeral home.

The Walton Funeral Home in tony Locust Valley is like the Campbell Funeral Home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side – a very good last address.

This was where George Allard had been waked ten years ago, and also my aunt Cornelia, and my father, and too many other family and friends since I was a child.

Walton’s is situated in a nice old Victorian house, similar to and not far from my former office, and I suppose if I stayed in New York, then someday this is where I’d wind up because these places never seem to go out of business. People are dying to get in and all that. I like Parlor B.

Ethel, however, was in Parlor A, which is small and usually reserved for the elderly who have outlived most potential mourners, or for the truly unpopular. Like the Stanhopes.

I could barely hear the piped-in organ music as I signed the guest book, so I asked a guy in black to turn it up a bit and check the treble. Then we entered Parlor A.

There were a lot of flower arrangements along the walls, but not many people in the seats. The Allard family occupied most of the front row, but we went first to the coffin, and the four of us stood there looking at Ethel Allard.

She seemed peaceful – I mean, she wasn’t moving or anything – and the undertakers had done a good job with her hair and makeup. She wore a very nice lavender-and-white lace dress that looked like it was from another era. Good choice, Ethel.

Susan whispered, “She’s so beautiful.”

I agreed, “She looks good.” For someone who’s old and dead.

William and Charlotte commented that Ethel hadn’t aged much in ten years. In fact, she looked better than Charlotte, who was alive.

I said a silent prayer for Ethel, then I took the lead in getting us away from the coffin, and I turned and walked to Elizabeth, who stood, and was looking very good in black. We kissed, and she said, “Thank you for coming.”

I said, “She was a remarkable woman, and I will miss her.”

Susan came up beside me, and she and Elizabeth exchanged kisses and appropriate remarks. Susan asked her, “How are you doing?”

Elizabeth nodded and replied, “I’m happy that she’s with Dad now.”

Well… who knows where she is or whom she’s with.

Next, the Stanhopes greeted Elizabeth, and I could sense that there was some distance there on both sides. The Stanhopes were ostensibly there out of a sense of noblesse oblige, but really they’d come to see their daughter, and their few friends in New York, and I hoped their grandchildren. My being in New York was a bonus for them.

In truth, William and Charlotte had some issues with Ethel, mostly having to do with Ethel’s life tenancy in what had once been their property, and also having to do with the reason for that life tenancy. Not to mention Ethel not knowing her place, which Charlotte actually did mention, and which in turn went back again to Ethel screwing Augustus. Well, I guess William was happy that his father’s mistress was dead.

Elizabeth, for her part, I’m sure, never cared for William and Charlotte – who did? – but she’d been programmed over the years to be nice to them, and of course, she was very nice now and thanked them for coming all the way from Hilton Head.

Then Elizabeth, perhaps not recalling or not fully appreciating the Stanhopes’ feelings toward their once and future son-in-law, said to them, “Isn’t this wonderful about Susan and John?”

Well, you wouldn’t think that faces could freeze and twitch at the same time, but theirs did. Elizabeth got it right away and said, “Let me introduce you to my children.”

She introduced us to Tom Junior and Betsy, who we all remembered as little tykes, and they were good-looking young adults, and very well dressed and well mannered. Maybe I should try to match them up with Edward and Carolyn. We could start a dynasty. But for now, we all expressed our sorrow about Grandma’s passing.

Then Elizabeth introduced us to some other family members in Row A, and finally at the end of the row was Elizabeth’s ex, Tom Corbet, whom I remembered. Tom then introduced us to a good-looking man named Laurence, who Tom said was his partner.

Well, what can I say? These things are always awkward when exes are in the same room with their new loves, and it doesn’t matter much if the new love is of the same or the opposite sex. It occurred to me, too, that if things had gone differently Saturday night and Sunday morning, I might be sitting next to Elizabeth now, and I’d be greeting Susan, William, and Charlotte with cool indifference bordering on hostility. Goes to show you.

Anyway, because Tom had introduced Laurence as his partner, this quite naturally prompted William to inquire, “What business are you two in?”

Tom replied, “Wall Street,” and Laurence replied, “CBS News.”

This seemed to confuse William, who pressed on. “I thought you were partners.”

Elizabeth was all too happy to clear that up, and everyone had a little chuckle, except William, who’d just learned a new meaning to an old word that he didn’t want to know. Charlotte, even sober, never knows what anyone is talking about anyway.

Then Susan, saint that she is, told Elizabeth we’d be there until closing time, and to please let her know if there was anything that she or John could do. John seconded that, but John had no idea how he could help out in a funeral home. Water the flowers? Turn up the organ music? Hopefully, William and Charlotte would tire before 9:00 P.M. That was one good thing they could do for me.

Elizabeth thanked us for all we’d done already and added, “I love you both.”

That was sweet. And to continue the love fest, I said, “It’s too bad that it took a funeral to bring us all together – you, and Susan and me, and William and Charlotte, who I’ve missed terribly all these years.”

I thought I heard a little squeaky sound come from Charlotte, who didn’t miss that, and I definitely heard a snort from William. Come on, guys. Loosen up and let the love in.

Susan suggested we sit, so we took seats behind Elizabeth and her two children.

Some wakes are better than others, partly depending, as I said, on who’s lying in the coffin. Also, you do get to see people you haven’t seen in a while, and you can promise to get together for happier occasions. This wake, however, promised to be deadly. All right, all right.

I mean, I didn’t seem to know anyone who was there, or anyone who was drifting in. Maybe I should go over to Parlor B and see what was going on there.

Susan did know some people, however, and she stood a few times and said hello to arriving mourners, and now and then she’d drag someone over to say hello to me and her parents.

William and Charlotte, too, knew a few of the older crowd, and they got up and greeted some of them, then they drifted off to the back of the parlor where the senior citizens had gathered, away from the coffin, which probably upset them.

I recalled that at George’s wake ten years ago, the old servants’ network, or what was left of it then, had gathered in good numbers at Walton’s to pay their final respects to one of their own. I recalled, too, that even a few of the old gentry and their ladies had made an appearance. But now I didn’t see anyone who could be from either of those opposite but joined classes, and this more than anything else I’d seen here made me realize that the old world that had been dying when I was born was truly dead and buried.

And then, coming through the door, appeared an old lady in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse in a white uniform. Susan saw her and said to me, “That’s Mrs. Cotter, who was our head housekeeper. Do you remember her?”

I didn’t recall having a housekeeper, head or otherwise, so I assumed she meant at Stanhope Hall. I replied, “I think I do.”

Mrs. Cotter was wheeled up to the coffin by the nurse, and they remained there for some time, then they did a one-eighty and moved toward Elizabeth.

Susan stood and took my hand, and we went to where Elizabeth and Mrs. Cotter were now sitting face-to-face, and Elizabeth held the old lady’s hands in hers. They were both crying and speaking through their tears.

Mrs. Cotter was infirm, but she seemed sharp enough, and she recognized Susan right away. Susan knelt beside her, and more tears started to flow as all three women reminisced about Ethel, and George, and about the past, and caught up on life.

This seemed to be all that was left of the glory days of Stanhope Hall – the former master and mistress burping martinis in the rear of Parlor A; their daughter trying to re-create at least some parts of those better days; Mrs. Cotter, whom I did remember presiding over a diminished staff in a house that was being closed up, room by room; Elizabeth, the estate brat; and Ethel, who was in the enviable position of not having to attend any more funerals.

Susan said to Mrs. Cotter, “You remember my husband, John Sutter.”

Mrs. Cotter adjusted her bifocals and said, “I thought you ran off with another woman.”

The elderly, God bless them, can and do say whatever they want, even if they don’t get it quite right. I replied, politely, “I’m back.”

“Well, you never should have left in the first place. Miss Stanhope had all the suitors she wanted, and from some of the best families.”

Everyone was suppressing smiles, and Mrs. Cotter, happy for the opportunity to speak up for Miss Stanhope, continued, “This is a fine young lady, and I hope you appreciate her.”

“I do.”

Mrs. Cotter seemed content to leave it at that, and Susan said to her, “My parents are here, Mrs. Cotter, and I know they would want to say hello.”

And then something strange happened. Mrs. Cotter said to Susan, “Thank you, but I have no wish to speak to Mr. Stanhope.”

Well, that stopped the show. Then Mrs. Cotter said to her nurse, “We can leave now.”

Elizabeth walked with them to the lobby, and Susan and I went back to our seats.

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. But, I thought, William must have been a particularly difficult employer, tight as a drum, and not overly generous with the severance pay. I was happy to have my very low opinion of William validated by Mrs. Cotter in front of his daughter.

Susan did comment, “I seem to remember some friction between Dad and Mrs. Cotter.”

To lighten the moment, I said, “She certainly put me in my place.”

Susan smiled and said, “She doesn’t remember, but she liked you. She said I should marry you.”

We left it there, and I went back to dividing my attention between my watch and the arriving mourners. I noticed now some people who were obviously friends of Elizabeth, male and female, and also a few women who were so badly dressed that they could have been her customers. I suppose I’ve been conditioned since childhood to look down on the nouveaux riches, but they themselves make it easy for people like me to make fun of them. I mean, they are a bad combination of money without taste, and conspicuous consumption without restraint. And they seemed to be taking over this part of the planet.

After about half an hour, I was bored senseless, so I didn’t notice that my mother had arrived until I realized that Susan was speaking to Harriet, who was standing with Elizabeth in the first row.

Harriet looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you going to say hello, John?”

Bitch. I stood and apologized. “I’m sorry, Mother. I was deep in prayer.”

She actually smiled at that, then she, Susan, and Elizabeth continued chatting.

Harriet, by the way, was wearing a coarse cotton dress of multi-colors, and I was certain that it was the mourning dress of some fucked-up tribe that lived in some fucked-up jungle in some fucked-up country somewhere. Harriet was multicultural before it became fashionable, and any culture would do, as long as it wasn’t her own.

So, before she started dancing around the coffin throwing burning bananas into the air or something, I excused myself and escaped to the sitting room. Tom and Laurence were taking a break, and I sat with them. I said, “Explain to me again how you can be partners and be in different businesses.”

We all got a good chuckle out of that, and Tom confessed, “I thought I had a mother-in-law from hell, God rest her soul, but your two are straight from the inferno.”

I replied, “Oh, they’re not so bad.”

Tom said, “Well, I’m only going by what Elizabeth used to tell me, and she got most of that from Ethel. So I’m sorry if I misspoke.”

I conceded, “They’re not the most likable people. But they do have some good qualities.” I was in a don’t-give-a-shit mood, so I explained, “They’re rich and old.”

That got a good laugh, and Tom said, “Well, big congratulations on your coming marriage.”

So I sat there awhile making small talk with Tom and Laurence, glad for the company. Then William walked into the big sitting room with an older gent, and he saw me, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Well, that wasn’t going to stop me from being polite and respectful to my future father-in-law, so I held up my hand and flashed two fingers.

William turned away and sat with his friend.

Tom asked me, “Are you leaving?”

“No.”

“Oh, I thought you just gave William the two-minute warning.”

“No, I was giving him the Peace sign.” I explained, “Sometimes I just give him the middle finger.”

Tom and Laurence thought that was funny, so I expounded on that and said, “When I was dating Susan, William and I used to argue about the Vietnam War, and I’d flash the Peace sign, and he’d flash the Victory sign, which is the same thing. Right? Well, we got some laughs out of that, and then I started giving him the middle finger, which he didn’t think was so funny, so he started to shake his index finger at me as a warning that I was pissing him off, and then I would wiggle my pinky – like this – to make fun of his small dick.”

Tom and Laurence were laughing, and people were starting to notice, including William, and also the Reverend James Hunnings, whom I just noticed, and who was giving me a look like he was about to shake his finger at me. Anyway, I thought I should leave, and I excused myself.

Back in Parlor A, I sat in the rear and watched the comings and goings, and basically zoned out. The smell of the flowers was overwhelming, and the wall sconces had these stupid flickering lights that could bring on a seizure.

My mind drifted back to George’s funeral again, and I recalled that Frank Bellarosa had actually shown up, which caused a little stir in the crowd. I mean, it’s not every day you get a Mafia don at Walton’s, and I wondered if the mourners knew he was there because of me. And for Susan, of course. I hoped everyone just thought that Bellarosa had come because he lived in the neighboring estate.

In any case, Frank arrived with Anna and they knelt at the coffin, Catholic-style, crossed themselves, and bowed their heads in prayer. I swore I saw George trying to roll over. After paying their respects to the deceased, the Bellarosas turned and shook hands with everyone in the first row, expressed their condolences, and, thankfully, left.

I had no idea why he’d shown up in the first place, except that it was my understanding that the Italians never missed a funeral, no matter how remote their relationship might be with the deceased. They must scan the obituaries every morning, then call around to see if anyone knew Angelo Cacciatore, or whomever, and then make a decision about going to the wake based mostly on not wanting to insult the family. Even if it wasn’t their family.

Anyway, Frank Bellarosa had other motives for taking a half hour out of his busy criminal life to come to George Allard’s wake, and to send a huge flower arrangement; he wanted to ingratiate himself into my and Susan’s life. Actually, he was already screwing one of us, and at that point, it wasn’t me.

But I promised Susan I wouldn’t think about those things, so instead I thought about happy things, like seeing Edward and Carolyn, being with Susan again, and the slippery bathtub in the Stanhopes’ guest bathroom.

After about twenty minutes, I got up and checked out the floral arrangements along the walls. I knew a lot of the senders, including my old pals Jim and Sally Roosevelt, who I understood would not be coming to New York for Ethel Allard’s funeral, though they knew the Allards for forty years. Also in that category was my sister, Emily, who I wished had come in, just for the family reunion, but Emily has as little as possible to do with this world, having long ago decided that our mother is crazy, and that everyone else who lived here was stuck in the unhealthy past.

And speaking of Harriet, I figured out right away that the potted geranium sitting on a stand had come from her. Harriet is very green, so no one gets cut flowers from her. Usually, for an occasion, she brings or sends something like potted parsley or dill, or whatever. I mean, she’s nuts, but at least she didn’t bring a tomato bush to Walton’s Funeral Home.

I saw a very big arrangement whose card said it was from John, Susan, Carolyn, Edward, William, Charlotte, and Peter. I knew why the first four names were on the card, but I didn’t know why Cheap Willie, Airhead Charlotte, and Useless Peter couldn’t send their own flowers. Just being on the same card with them gave me stomach cramps. How was I going to spend the rest of William’s life being nice to him?

I looked at the other flower arrangements, and it was nice to see so many names from the old days, people who may have moved on, but who had gotten word of the death of Ethel Allard, who, for all her faults, was a good church lady, a good friend to a select few, and one of the last links to the days of the grand estates and the ladies and gentlemen who once lived in them – a world that she detested, but which, ironically, she was more a part of than she understood.

I glanced at the cards on a few other flower arrangements, then found myself staring at a small card pinned to a very large spray of white lilies. It said, Deepest Condolences, and it was signed, Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

We stayed until the only one left in Parlor A was Ethel.

We saw Elizabeth to her car, along with her son and daughter, and Susan asked her, “Would you like to join us at home for a late supper?”

Elizabeth declined, but I pressed her, wanting company so I wouldn’t have to speak to the Stanhopes.

Elizabeth sensed this, but told us that Tom and Laurence were going to stop by her house, which I thought was very civilized, so we invited them as well, and Elizabeth called Tom on his cell phone, and he and Laurence were happy to join us. I love spontaneous parties, and I suggested to Elizabeth, “Let’s invite Uncle… what was your uncle’s name?”

Susan cautioned me, “We don’t want to overwhelm Sophie.”

The Stanhopes didn’t seem too happy about the company, and that made me happy.

So we all got on the road, and at about 9:30, I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall.

My remote still worked, but as I drove through the opening gates, a young man in a silly sky blue uniform stepped out of the gatehouse – now the guard house – and held up his hand.

I stopped, and he asked me, “Who are you here to see?”

I replied, “Me. Who are you here to see?”

I straightened him out and told him to leave the gates open for the next two vehicles, then I proceeded up the dark drive.

William commented, “Well, that’s a fine thing. Can’t even get into your own property. In our community, Palmetto Shores, every security person knows every resident or their cars. Isn’t that right, Susan?”

Susan replied, “Mr. Nasim just began this service, Dad.”

But William went on, singing the praises of his and Charlotte’s, and I guess Susan’s, gated paradise. I really needed a drink. More importantly, I think Susan was already tired of Mom and Dad, and they’d been here only four hours.

But to be nice, I said to everyone, “I’m really looking forward to Susan and me coming to Hilton Head. Palmetto Shores sounds great.”

The back of the car fell silent, and I continued on, parked the car, and we all went inside.

Susan had called ahead to Sophie, who was in the kitchen trying to rustle up enough grub for nine people – ten, if we could get ahold of Uncle What’s-his-name.

I did my guy thing and set up a nice bar on the kitchen island, and Susan helped Sophie. But William and Charlotte, as always, were useless, and they sat in the living room with martini number five.

Elizabeth arrived with Tom Junior and Betsy, and Elizabeth asked, “What is going on at the gatehouse?”

Susan explained as I made drinks for everyone, and Elizabeth commented, “That’s sad… but I still have good memories of living there.” Elizabeth then asked if I had a Tuscan red, which reminded me of our first and last date. I asked her kids to raise their right hands and swear that they were twenty-one, which made them and their mother smile.

I had a great idea, and went into the living room and got a framed photo of Carolyn and Edward and said, “They’ll be here tomorrow night. Maybe the four of you can go out.”

Susan said, “John.”

That means something different every time, but it usually means, “Shut up.”

Elizabeth, however, said, “That would be nice.”

Tom and Laurence showed up, and I had to explain about the guards and the paranoid Iranian. They both thought that was exciting, but I could see that Elizabeth was starting to think there was more to this, and she glanced at Susan, then at me, and I nodded.

This gave me another great idea, and I said to Susan, “Let’s call the Nasims and ask them to come over.”

“I’m not sure what they can eat or drink.”

“I’ll tell them to bring their own food.” I added, “Mr. Nasim would love to speak to your father about Stanhope Hall.”

“I don’t think my parents are up for much more company.”

That was why I wanted to invite the Nasims. I said, “Amir and Soheila might be hurt or insulted if we didn’t include them in our funeral rituals.” I asked Elizabeth, “Would you mind?”

She replied, “Not at all.” She added, “They knew Mom for nine years, and they were always very nice to her.”

“Good.”

Laurence was following the conversation and inquired, “Can we ask him who wants to kill him and why?”

I replied, “Of course. He’s very open about that.”

I felt the balance tipping in my favor, but then Susan said, “No. Some other time.”

So the Stanhopes would have to forgo a multicultural experience. Maybe I’d invite the Nasims over for dinner and include my mother. She slobbers over third world people, and she’d be proud of me for having Iranian friends.

Anyway, by 10:30, we were all a little lubricated, and we sat in the dining room and passed around platters of hot and cold salads, which I was afraid might agree with William and Charlotte. I’d insisted that they sit at opposite heads of the table, and to make sure they had no one to talk to, I placed Susan, me, and Elizabeth in the middle, and I placed Tom and Laurence on either side of William, and Tom Junior and Betsy on either side of Charlotte. I’m good at this.

William and Charlotte excused themselves early, as I knew they would, and by midnight everyone left, and Susan, Sophie, and I were cleaning up.

I said to Susan, “That was nice. It looked like everyone was having a good time.”

Susan agreed, “That was very nice.”

“Your parents seemed a bit quiet.”

“They were tired.”

“I think we’re out of gin.”

“I’ll get some tomorrow.” She looked at me, smiled, and said, “This is like old times.”

“It is.” But it wasn’t.

We hugged and kissed, which made Sophie smile, and Susan said to me, “I’m so happy, John, but also sad.”

“I know.”

“But I know we can make up for all the lost years.”

“We’ll stay up two hours later every night.”

“And never take each other for granted, and call twice a day, and not work late at the office, and no more stupid nights out with the girls-”

“Do you mean me or you?”

“Be serious. And we’re going to have your mother for dinner once a week-”

“Hold on.”

“And meet Carolyn in the city for dinner and a show, and fly to L.A. once a month to see Edward.”

“You forgot Hilton Head.”

“And we’ll do that, too. And you’ll see, John, that my parents will accept you. They’ll never love you the way I love you, but they will come to respect you, and when they see how happy I am, they’ll be fine.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Admit that tonight wasn’t as bad as you predicted.”

“It got a little rocky there over cocktails, and maybe we didn’t have to hear about Dan so much, and I could have done without the prying questions, or the lecture on working hard for forgiveness… but other than that, it was a pleasant reunion.”

“But it could have been worse.” She predicted, “Tomorrow will be better.”

“And Monday will be even better than that.”

She kissed me and said, “I’m going up.”

“I’ll check the doors.”

Susan went upstairs, and I checked all the doors and windows and made sure the outdoor lights were on. Then I said good night to Sophie, got the carbine out of the hall closet, and went up to the master bedroom.

Susan was reading in bed, and she glanced at the rifle, but didn’t comment.

I’d loaded the shotgun earlier with the heavy game buckshot in one barrel and a deer slug in the other, and I took the gun from my closet, and with a weapon in each hand I asked Susan, “Would you rather sleep with Mr. Beretta or Mr. Winchester?”

She continued reading her magazine and said, “I don’t care.”

I leaned the carbine against her nightstand and rested the shotgun against my side of the bed. I said to her, “A full-perimeter security system will be in place in a week or so.”

She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, “Did you have a chance to look at the floral arrangements?”

“I did.”

“Okay. So?”

“I saw it.”

I said, “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” I explained, “I mentioned Ethel’s illness when I was there Sunday, and Anna remembered her. And Anthony isn’t even home. So I think that was just a nice gesture from Anna and Megan.”

“Or maybe a thank-you for slashing the painting.”

I thought about that and said, “I’m sure Anthony saw that first and got rid of it.”

Again, she didn’t reply. So I got undressed and slipped on my Yale T-shirt.

Susan inquired, “Am I going to have to see that every night?”

“It’s who I am.”

“God help you.”

I guess that was a joke. But it was close to blasphemy.

I got into bed and read one of the city tabloids that Sophie brought with her every morning to improve her English, which I think explained some of her problems with the language.

Anyway, I was specifically looking for an article about John Gotti, and I found a small piece that reported that Mr. Gotti’s body had arrived from Missouri and was lying inside a closed coffin at the Papavero Funeral Home in the Maspeth section of Queens. The article seemed to suggest that there was no public viewing of the body, and that funeral plans were indefinite because the Diocese of Brooklyn had denied Mr. Gotti a public funeral Mass.

That seemed a little inconsistent with the forgiving message of Christ, but, hey, it was their church and they could do what they wanted. Still, it struck me as a badly thought-out public relations move, and likely to backfire and cause some public sympathy for John Gotti.

More importantly to me, it seemed as though there wasn’t going to be a long wake and a Mass, so Anthony Bellarosa might not feel the need to surface in public this week. Maybe I should send an e-mail to the Brooklyn Diocese explaining that I, the FBI, and the NYPD really wanted to see all the paesanos who showed up at the wake and the funeral Mass. What’s wrong with this cardinal? Didn’t he see The Godfather?

Anyway, future plans for Mr. Gotti’s mortal remains and his immortal soul were on hold, awaiting, I guess, further negotiations. Maybe somebody should offer a big contribution to the diocese. Maybe somebody did, and the cardinal was holding out for more.

Frank Bellarosa, incidentally, had no such problems. I was sure that his soul had as many black spots on it as Mr. Gotti’s did, but Frank thought ahead. And I think, too, he had a premonition of his approaching death, though not the way it actually happened.

I recalled very clearly that the day after our Mafia theme party at the Plaza, Frank and I, with Lenny and Vinnie and a big black Cadillac, crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, where Frank had grown up. We went to his boyhood church, Santa Lucia, and had coffee with three elderly Italian priests who told us how difficult it was to maintain the old church in a changing neighborhood, and so forth. Bottom line on that, Frank wrote a check for fifty large, and I guess the check cleared because when Frank’s time came – I glanced at Susan – a few months later, there was no problem having his funeral Mass at Santa Lucia.

But times change, and the Catholic Church had apparently gotten tired of providing funeral Masses for the less desirable sheep in its flock, who were, of course, the people who most needed the sacrament.

I thought, too, of Ethel’s wake at Walton’s, and her upcoming Saturday funeral service at St. Mark’s, presided over by the Reverend Hunnings, and then her interment in the Stanhopes’ private cemetery. Ethel Allard’s death was not going to make national news the way John Gotti’s had, or Frank Bellarosa’s before him.

This makes sense, of course, even if it doesn’t seem fair; if you live large, you die large. But if there is a higher authority, who asks questions at the gate, and examines your press clippings, then that’s where things are sorted out.

Susan said, “Good night,” and turned off her bedside lamp.

I read the tabloids for a while longer, then kissed my sleeping beauty, patted my shotgun, and turned off my light.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Thursday morning dawned gray and drizzly. I was hoping for good weather so the Stanhopes could go out and play five rounds of golf.

Susan, perfect hostess and loving daughter, was already downstairs, and I noticed that the arsenal had been put away somewhere, so as not to upset any houseguests or staff who might want to make our beds or clean the bathroom. I really needed to make Sophie comfortable with weapons. Maybe I’d teach her the Manual of Arms, and the five basic firing positions.

I showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where Susan had a pot of coffee made and a continental breakfast laid out on the island.

We kissed and hugged, and I inquired, “Are your parents taking a run?”

“They haven’t come down yet, but I heard them stirring.”

“Should I bring some martinis up to them?”

She ignored that – and I don’t blame her – and said, “I checked my e-mail, and Carolyn will be in on the 6:05 train, and she’ll take a taxi from the station.” She then filled me in on Edward’s itinerary and a few other things I needed to know, and I was happy to hear that we were going to skip the afternoon viewing at Walton’s. I’m sure Ethel would have liked to skip her entire funeral, but she had to be there, and we didn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t notice.

Anyway, I poured coffee for myself and for Susan, who urged me to share her vitamins, which I politely declined. I did, however, sink my teeth into a granola muffin.

So we sat at the table, reading the three tabloids that Sophie had gone out to buy, and I saw that Mr. Gotti was still in limbo at Papavero Funeral Home. The coffin was still closed, and only the family was allowed to visit. There was, however, some talk of a private funeral Mass in the chapel at the cemetery, by invitation only, date, time, and place to be determined. Well, that was a move in the right direction. Maybe the Brooklyn Diocese caught some flak from La Cosa Nostra Anti-Defamation League. I wondered, too, if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio had been invited.

I stood and went to the wall phone, and Susan asked, “Who are you calling?”

“Felix Mancuso.”

“Why?”

“To get an update.” I dialed Mr. Mancuso’s cell phone, and he answered. I said, “Hi, John Sutter.”

“Good morning.”

“And to you. Look, I don’t want to be a pest, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Anthony’s whereabouts or any news I can use?”

He replied, “I would have called you. But I’m glad you called.” He informed me, “I did get your message about your chance encounter with Bellarosa’s driver, Tony Rosini – that’s his last name – and we’re following up on that.”

That was about as much as I was going to get out of Felix Mancuso, and I didn’t want to pursue this with Susan in the room, so I told him something he didn’t know. “I was at the wake last night of Ethel Allard, whom I told you about, and one of the floral arrangements there – a really nice spray of white lilies – had a card signed from Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.”

Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “His wife and his mother’s names are on the card. So I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

That was my thought, too, and I was glad to have it confirmed. But to fully appreciate the underworld subtlety of this gesture, I asked, “Please explain.”

So he explained, “Well, had it been signed with just Anthony’s name, then he was sending a message to you, and to your wife.”

“It wasn’t our wake.”

“Well, that’s the message.”

“Which is…?”

“You know.” He advised me, “Put it out of your mind.”

“Okay.” I was really glad I had Felix Mancuso to do cultural interpretations for me. I asked, “You got my message about Amir Nasim putting in a full security system here?”

“I did. That’s good for everyone.”

“Well, it’s not good for Iranian or Italian hit men.”

“No, it’s not good for them.”

I asked, “Did you urge Nasim to do that?”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “He came to his own conclusions.”

“Okay… but is this threat to him real?”

“He has enemies.”

There was no use pursuing that, so I updated him, “Susan’s parents have arrived and are in the house.”

“Have you told them about your concerns?”

“No. We’re telling them that this security has to do with Nasim.”

“All right. No use alarming them.”

I said, “So you suggest that they stay elsewhere.”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I’ll take that up with Mrs. Sutter.”

After a few seconds, Mr. Mancuso chuckled and said, “You should work for us.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass that on.”

He informed me, “I had a very nice talk with Mrs. Sutter yesterday.”

“She said.”

He continued, “I think she understands the situation, and she’s alert without being alarmed.”

“Good. Did you tell her I want a dog?”

He chuckled again, and replied, “I’ve been asking my wife to get a dog for twenty years.”

“No one is trying to kill you.”

“Actually, they are.” He added, “But that’s part of my job, and not part of yours.”

“I hope not.”

He said, “I’m impressed with Mrs. Sutter.”

“Good. Me, too.” I added, “And she with you.”

“Good. Well, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. I was reading in the tabloids about John Gotti and the Brooklyn Diocese and all that. Did you see that?”

“I did.”

“So, how does this affect Anthony’s possible appearance at the wake and the funeral?”

“Well, there is no public wake, so all of Mr. Gotti’s friends and associates got a pass on that. But there will be a small, private funeral Mass at about noon in the chapel at Saint John’s Cemetery in Queens – that’s sort of the Mafia Valhalla – on this Saturday. So we’ll see who surfaces there.”

The newspapers hadn’t said anything about the time, place, or date, but I guess Special Agent Mancuso had better sources than the New York Post. I said, “Coincidentally, I’m going to Mrs. Allard’s funeral service and burial on Saturday here in Locust Valley. So I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to make John Gotti’s send-off.”

“I don’t think you’d be invited, Mr. Sutter.”

“Actually, I was. By Anthony.”

“Really? Well, I’ll be there, as an uninvited guest, and if I see anyone there who you know, I’ll speak to them on your behalf.”

“Thank you. And please call me.”

“I will.”

I said to him, “Speaking of the dead, Anna Bellarosa told me that she and her three sons visit dead Dad’s grave every Father’s Day.” I glanced at Susan, who had been listening to my conversation, but now went back to the newspaper. I continued, “So that may be a good time and place to look for Anthony.”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “Good thought. We’ll also double the stakeout at Bellarosa’s house and his mother’s house in Brooklyn on Father’s Day.”

It would be good, I thought, if Anthony felt he needed to be at his father’s grave on Father’s Day – maybe to get inspired, or maybe to avoid getting yelled at by Mom. And of course there’d be the dinner at his house, or Mom’s house. But Anthony really wasn’t stupid enough to go home or to Mom’s – but he might go to the cemetery. I reminded Mr. Mancuso, “Santa Lucia Cemetery.”

“I know. I was there.” He stayed silent a moment, then he was thoughtful enough to remind me, “You went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral Mass and burial.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“We should have a few beers one night.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” I asked him, “Are you and the county police in touch?”

“Detective Nastasi and I spoke last night.”

“I’m happy to hear that. And are you still assigned to this case?”

“Until it’s resolved.”

“Great.” I asked him, “How is the war on terrorism going?”

“Pretty good today.”

“Well, it’s still early.”

He informed me, “Every day that nothing happens is a good day.”

“I know the feeling.”

Our business concluded, we signed off with promises to speak again, and I sat down and contemplated my granola muffin. I said to Susan, “This tastes funny.”

“It’s made with yogurt. What was he saying on his end?”

I filled her in, but decided not to mention Mr. Mancuso’s suggestion that her parents get out of our house. Or was that my idea? Anyway, I thought I should hold on to that and use it if the Stanhopes became insufferable. Also of course, I really didn’t want to alarm everyone, especially Edward and Carolyn.

But Susan asked me, “What was he saying about my parents?”

“Oh, he said if he heard anything that would change our alert level here, then he’d advise us, and we should ask your parents to find other accommodations.”

She thought about that, then said, “I would be very upset if I had to tell Edward and Carolyn about our problem and ask them to sleep elsewhere.”

“Not a problem. Mancuso said the children will be fine here. It’s only your parents who would have to leave.”

“I don’t understand…” Then she understood and said to me, “John, that’s not funny, and not nice.”

“Sorry. It’s my ace in the hole.” I suggested, “Think about it. Less chance of friction. More chance of bonding.”

She actually seemed to be thinking about it, and said, “Let’s see how it goes today.”

“Okay.” I pointed out, “You seemed a bit impatient with them last night.”

“It was a long, tense, and emotional day.”

I didn’t reply, which was good because I heard Them on the stairs.

William and Charlotte came into the kitchen, and Susan kissed her parents, and I satisfied myself with “Good morning.”

William, I recalled, liked his cold cereal in the morning, and Susan had lined up six boxes on the counter of these godawful sugar concoctions, and William picked something with cocoa in it that I wouldn’t feed to the pigs.

Charlotte doesn’t eat breakfast and doesn’t drink coffee, so Susan had set out a chest of herbal teas, and Susan boiled water for the old bat.

I mean, it wasn’t even 8:00 A.M., and I was already strung out.

I was impressed, however, that to look at them, you would never know that they had consumed enough gin and wine last night to float a small boat. Amazing. Maybe they had annual liver transplants.

Anyway, the four of us sat around the kitchen table and made small talk.

Then William said to me offhandedly, “I didn’t realize from Susan’s e-mail and phone calls that you were actually staying here.”

I replied, “Well, I moved in only a day or so ago.” I explained, “Upon Ethel’s death, Mr. Nasim, as you know, was able to reclaim the gatehouse, and he wanted to install his security people there – as you saw – so that left me homeless in New York, and Susan was kind enough to let me use my old bedroom here.”

He thought about that, then pointed out, quite correctly, “That’s also her bedroom.”

Susan explained, unnecessarily, “We’re sleeping together.”

William, of course, knew that by now. Hello? William? But I guess he wanted to hear it from the sinners’ own mouths. Meanwhile, I was sure he and Charlotte had not been too judgmental of Susan when she lived and dated in Hilton Head. I mean, really, Susan is an adult, and I have adult tendencies, and it’s none of their business what we do behind closed doors. Not to mention we’d already been married to each other, and we had two children, for God’s sake. But, as I say, William is a control freak, plus, of course, this really had to do with John Sutter, not propriety.

Anyway, we dropped that subject, and William shoveled spoonfuls of milk-sodden Cocoa Puffs into his mouth, and Charlotte sipped tea made out of Himalayan stinkweed or something.

I was thinking of an excuse to excuse myself, but then William said to Susan, “Your mother and I were thinking that you have enough company with Edward and Carolyn coming – and John here – so we’ve decided to stay at The Creek.”

Thank you, God.

Susan objected, and I did my part by saying, “Won’t you reconsider?” Maybe you should go home.

Anyway, we went back and forth, and when I was sure they were adamant, I said, “Maybe you can stay just one more night.”

“Well…”

Oh my God. What did I do?

Then William stuck to his guns and said to Susan, “Please call The Creek and see if a cottage is available.”

Charlotte chirped in, “We’ve always enjoyed staying there, and it’s no reflection on your wonderful hospitality, dear.”

I replied, “I understand that.”

Charlotte looked at me and said, “I was speaking to Susan.”

“Of course.”

Susan went to the phone, called The Creek, and secured a cottage for Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, her parents, and instructed the club to put all charges on her bill, including food, beverage, and incidentals. William was happy. I was giddy.

I said to Susan, “See if you can get Mom and Dad golf privileges. And don’t forget the cabana. And maybe tennis lessons.”

Susan ignored me, finalized the arrangements, then hung up and said, “You’re booked until Monday.”

So it was settled. I guess the Stanhopes didn’t want to share a house with me, and probably they were afraid of another spontaneous or planned house gathering, and I’m sure they found the guards at the gate to be inconvenient. Not to mention the possibility of Iranian assassins hiding in the bushes.

But for the record, everyone agreed that it might work out better if Mom and Dad had their own space, close to here, but not too close, though we were all a little disappointed, of course.

I inquired, “Can I help you pack?”

William assured me that they could do that themselves, but he asked if I’d carry their luggage to the car.

I replied, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Charlotte slipped up and said, “We’re packed.”

“Well, then” – I stood and said – “I’ll just go and get your things.”

And off I went, taking the steps four at a time.

So, within half an hour, William, Charlotte, John, and Susan were outside saying ciao, but not arrivederci.

William announced that he and Charlotte had some old friends they wanted to see, and maybe they’d play golf with them and have lunch and also dinner, and unfortunately wouldn’t be at Ethel’s wake today or tonight, and they were sorry to miss Edward and Carolyn this evening, and so forth.

But we’d all get together Friday night at the funeral home, then play it by ear – whatever that meant. I hoped it meant we wouldn’t see them until the funeral service Saturday morning, if then. But we were all on for Father’s Day, and I reminded William, sotto voce, that we’d speak no later than Monday morning. I winked, but he didn’t return the wink.

Susan and I stood in the forecourt and waved as they drove off. I flashed William the V-sign, but I don’t think he saw it.

Susan and I walked back to the house, and she said, “Well, I’m a little disappointed, but a little relieved.”

“I know exactly how you feel.”

“Come on, John. You practically pushed them out the door.”

“I did not. He stumbled.”

We returned to the kitchen, and I tried another muffin. “This smells and tastes like manure.”

“It’s bran.” She said to me, “Well, you tried, and I tried, but I don’t think they were comfortable with this situation.”

“What was your first clue?”

She thought a moment, then said, “Well, it’s their problem.”

“It is. And don’t let them make you feel guilty. You’re a good daughter, but they’re manipulative, narcissistic, and self-centered.” Plus, they’re assholes. I added, “And they don’t care about seeing their grandchildren.”

Susan sat at the table, and she looked sad. So I said, “We’ll have a nice Father’s Day together. I promise.”

She forced a smile.

I hesitated, then took her hand and said, “If me leaving… I mean, leaving for good, will-”

“If you say that one more time, I’ll kick you out.”

I stood and gave her a big hug, then said, “Your father and I have a date to discuss business, Sunday night or Monday morning.”

She thought about that and said, “I don’t like being discussed as though I was a blushing virgin.”

“You’re not a virgin?”

“What are you going to talk about?”

“Well, the deal.” I let her know, “We need a prenuptial agreement. That’s what will make the deal work.”

“This is not a deal. It’s a marriage.”

“Not when you’re a Stanhope. And that’s your problem, not mine.”

“All right. Talk to him. Try not to screw up my allowance and my inheritance.”

“Do you care?”

“No. But take care of the children.”

“I will.” I added, “Whatever it takes.”

Then she said something that did not shock me. She said, “God forgive me, I hate them.”

She was a little weepy, so I put my arms around her and said, “We’ve moved on from the past, and now you have to move on from your parents.”

“I know.” She said, “I feel sorry for them.”

It’s hard for me to feel sorry for anyone worth one hundred million dollars, especially if they’re assholes, but to be nice, I said, “I know what you mean… I feel sorry for Harriet, and I felt sorry for my father… and I think he died feeling sorry for himself. But… we are not going to become them.”

She nodded, stood, and said, “Let’s do something fun today.”

Well, I just pushed the Stanhopes out the door, and it doesn’t get more fun than that. I asked, “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s go to the city and have lunch, then go to a museum, or shop.”

“Shop?”

“When was the last time you were in Manhattan?”

I replied, “September of last year.”

She looked at me, nodded, and said, “I’ve never been to Ground Zero.” She thought a moment, then asked, “Is that something we should do…?”

“It’s not exactly a fun day in the city.”

“I know… but you were there… can we do that today?”

“You can let me know how you feel when we’re driving in.”

“All right…” She took my hand and said, “I feel safe when I’m standing next to you.”

“That’s very nice.” I said to her, “I never felt so alone and so depressed in my life as I did when I came back to New York last September.”

She said, “Carolyn came to Hilton Head, and she said to me, ‘Mom, I wish Dad was here.’ And I said to her, ‘Me, too.’”

I replied, “Well, I’m here.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

As we drove toward Manhattan, Susan looked at the skyline and observed, “It’s so strange not seeing the Towers there…” Then she said, “Let’s go to Ground Zero.”

I glanced at her and replied, “All right.”

So we drove the Taurus into Lower Manhattan, and spent some quiet time on the observation platform overlooking the excavated ruins. It was hard to comprehend this tragedy, and harder to understand the senseless deaths of so many human beings, including people we knew. The gray, drizzly day added to our somber mood.

We took a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan. When I worked here, this was a very busy and bustling part of the city, but now the streets and sidewalks look emptier than I remembered, and I knew that had to do with September 11. Maybe I’d be working down here again, but with a new firm, of course – one that valued my brash career decisions, my sailing adventures, and my past association with organized crime. In fact, getting a good job was not going to be that easy – Anthony Bellarosa’s generous offer notwithstanding – so, since I might be the only person who would hire me at my required salary, I should work for myself. My future father-in-law would be delighted to finance my new firm, and Carolyn could work with me, and we’d be Sutter amp; Sutter: tax law, environmental specialists, and women’s legal rights.

Susan asked, “What are you thinking about?”

I told her, and she smiled and asked, “Which of those areas would you feel comfortable working in?”

We walked up to Chambers Street and entered Ecco restaurant, where I used to bring clients. After we were seated, I looked at the lunch crowd, which was mostly Wall Street types who are easy for me to spot, though I didn’t see a single face I knew. Ecco’s clientele also included high-priced defense attorneys who had business in the nearby courts, plus a few high-ranking law enforcement people from nearby Police Plaza and Federal Plaza. I looked around for Mr. Mancuso, but I didn’t think he’d splurge on a sixty-dollar lunch, though maybe this is where we’d have our beers one night after work.

Susan asked, “See anyone you know?”

“No, I don’t. And it’s only been ten years.”

She commented, “Ten years can be a long time.”

“It can be.”

We had a good lunch, with a good bottle of red wine to take the chill out of our bones, and we held hands and talked.

After lunch, we took a walk to my old office building at 23 Wall Street, and as I always do with visitors, I pointed out to Susan the scars in the stone that were caused by the Anarchists’ bomb at the turn of the last century. She was sweet enough not to remind me that I’d shown this to her about twenty times.

I was going to enter the big, ornate lobby to look around, but I noticed that there was now a security point right near the door, complete with metal detectors and tables where you needed to empty your pockets. This was a little jarring, and also depressing, so we moved on – not that I wanted to take the elevator up to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds to hug and kiss my former partners.

Well, I was ready to leave Memory Lane and take a subway or taxi up to Midtown for some really great shopping, but Susan said to me, “Let’s walk to Little Italy.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “We need to go there as well.”

I thought about that, then agreed, “All right.”

So we walked in the drizzle up to Little Italy and found ourselves on Mott Street, which hadn’t changed much in ten years, nor had it changed much in the last hundred years.

A minute later, we were in front of Giulio’s Ristorante. Not much had changed here either in the last hundred years, though I know for a fact that the plate-glass window and the red café curtains had been replaced ten years ago – right after Frank Bellarosa caught a double- barreled shotgun blast in his Kevlar vest, and sailed backwards from the sidewalk, then reentered Giulio’s through the window.

I looked down at the sidewalk where Vinnie had fallen after he took a single shotgun blast full in the face from less than six feet away. The shooters, two of them, had been crouched on the far side of Frank’s limo, which was parked at the curb… then I saw both men stand and rest their arms and shotguns on the roof of the car… then they fired… two for Frank, and one for Vinnie, and the sound of the blasts was deafening.

Then the guy who had fired only one shot and I made eye contact.

Susan said to me, “John… what happened?”

I looked at her. She’d been inside the restaurant, still at the table with Anna, and I realized I’d never told her exactly what had gone on out here.

I hesitated, then related what happened to Frank and Vinnie, and continued, “So the shooter looks away from me, then looks back at Frank, who’s half in and half out of the window… Vinnie is definitely not a problem anymore… so I guess the guy decides that Frank is taken care of too, and he doesn’t have a good shot at him anyway… only his legs… so he looks back at me – like… he’s not sure what to do about me.”

Susan said, in a barely audible voice, “Oh my God.” She asked me, “Why didn’t you run?”

“Well, it happened so fast… ten seconds maybe. But… I wasn’t sure why he was hesitating… then I thought, I guess I’m not on his list… but he was looking at me, and the shotgun was still in his hands… and I’m thinking I’m a witness, so maybe I shouldn’t be looking at his face.”

Susan took my arm and said, “Let’s go.”

I remained in the spot where I’d stood ten years before, and continued, “So I decided I didn’t want to wait for the shot – so I gave him the finger, and he smiled, then swung the gun back toward Frank and fired his final shot into Frank’s legs.”

She stayed silent a moment, then asked, “You did what?”

“I gave him the finger. Like this-” I raised my middle finger in a passable Italian salute.

Susan remained silent, then said to me, “That was insane.”

“Well… maybe. But here I am.”

She pulled on my arm and said again, “Let’s go.”

“No… let’s go inside.”

“No, John.”

“Come on. We’re here, it’s raining, and I need a cup of coffee.”

She seemed hesitant, then nodded and said, “All right.”

So we entered Giulio’s Ristorante.

It was exactly as I remembered it, with a high tin ceiling, three paddle fans, a white ceramic tile floor, checkered tablecloths, and cheap prints of sunny Italy on the white plaster walls. The place wasn’t much to look at, but it was spotless, and it was authentic – a throwback to the Italian immigrant culture of the last century. Also, I recalled, the food was authentic Italian – not American Italian – so you had to be careful what you ordered, unless you liked trippa, for instance, which I found out the hard way is diced pig’s stomach, and the sheep’s head – capozella – is no treat either.

Also authentic, I recalled, was the clientele, who were mostly locals from the shrinking Italian neighborhood, as well as recently arrived Italian immigrants, who were looking for real home cooking.

And then there was another sort of clientele – gentlemen who wore expensive suits and pinky rings and who did not smile much. I remembered these men quite clearly from when I’d had lunch here with Frank. And I also recalled that Frank, who’d been a happy guy after I’d sprung him on bail, had put on his Mafioso face as soon as we walked in.

Anyway, it was well after lunch now, but there was a smattering of older men at the tables having coffee, pastry, and conversation. I didn’t see anyone who might be friends of Anthony, or of Sally Da-da, and this was a good thing.

A middle-aged waiter in an apron came over to us, smiled, and said, “Buon giorno.”

Susan replied, “Buon giorno.”

I said, “Good afternoon.” I added, in case he thought we were there to extort money, “Table, please.”

“Yes, yes. You coma sitta here, nice a table by the window.”

That was the table that Frank landed on when he came in through the window. That didn’t bother me, but I had another idea and pointed toward a rear table where the Bellarosas and the Sutters had had their last supper together. I said, “We’ll take that table.”

“You wanna that table?”

Susan explained, “We sat there a long time ago.”

He shrugged, “Okay. Thasa nice a table, too.”

So we sat at the nice a table, and we ordered cappuccino, a bottle of San Pellegrino water, and a plate of mixed pastry.

The waiter took an immediate liking to Susan – they all do – and said to her, “I’m a gonna bringa you some beautiful dolce, and some nice a chocolate for you.”

How about me?

Susan said, “Grazie,” then said something else to him in Italian, and he smiled and replied. I think this is how she got into trouble the last time.

Anyway, we sat there, with our backs to the wall, which is how I’d sat here with Frank at our post-courthouse lunch, and Susan and I held hands, and stared at nothing in particular.

Finally, Susan said, “This is good.”

I replied, “I wasn’t sure.”

It did occur to me that we were in the belly of the beast, so to speak, though I didn’t really expect Anthony Bellarosa to walk through the door. Or the ghost of Frank Bellarosa for that matter. No, I felt we were chasing away the ghosts, and making new memories, rather than burying them, or letting them consume us.

The cappuccino came, and the bottled water, and a huge plate of Italian pastry, along with a dish of chocolates – for Susan – and also a bottle of Sambuca and two liqueur glasses, which were in omaggio – on the house.

We sat there, talking and drinking coffee, and eating too much pastry, and sipping Sambuca, killing the afternoon Italian-style. This was a lot less stressful than shopping, and more companionable than a museum. Good date.

At about four o’clock, Susan said, “We should go so we can get ready for Edward and Carolyn.”

I got the bill and overtipped the waiter, and we left Giulio’s, took a taxi back to our car, and began the drive home.

Not a bad day, so far. I got rid of the Stanhopes and got rid of Frank Bellarosa’s ghost. Anthony next.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

I had decided to surprise Carolyn at the station, and I parked the Taurus near the taxi stand and waited for the 6:05 to pull in.

I’d left the carbine home again, not thinking I’d get into a shoot-out with the Mafia in broad daylight at a crowded commuter station. And yet every time I left the rifle home, I was angry at myself for not having it with me. So, like Susan, I needed to face reality.

The 6:05 blasted its whistle and came to a hissing stop at the station. The rush-hour train disgorged dozens of commuters onto the platform, and I had a flashback to my former life. Could I do this again?

I got out of the car and scanned the passengers, then spotted Carolyn as she made her way toward the waiting taxis. I called out, “Hey, beautiful! Need a lift?”

She was apparently used to this and kept walking, head and eyes straight ahead. Then she stopped in her tracks and turned in my direction.

I waved, and she yelled, “Dad!” and hurried toward me.

We hugged and kissed, and she said, “Dad, it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart.” I said, “You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”

Carolyn ignores compliments, but she did smile and said, “This is so… I am so happy for you.”

“Me, too.” She was carrying only a handbag and a lawyerly briefcase, so I asked her, “Where’s your luggage?”

“Oh, I have a set of clothes at Mom’s.”

“Good.” Exactly how much were they paying these ADAs in Brooklyn? Surely, my socially sensitive daughter wasn’t spending her annual trust fund distribution on clothes and baubles for herself.

Anyway, we got in the car, and I noticed that she was wearing all black, which apparently was the new “in” non-color, suitable for work, after-work cocktails, weddings, and funerals.

Also, incidentally, her hair is black, like my mother’s was before she went gray, and there had never been a hint of Susan’s red hair, so there was hope that Carolyn wasn’t cuckoo.

I drove out of the small parking lot and noticed the expensive cars driven by wives who’d come to pick up their hardworking husbands. There were young children in some of the vehicles – the nanny left early today – and if I looked at these couples, I could see immediately which ones were happy to see each other, and which ones wished they’d taken another train ten or twenty years ago.

I had no doubt that each couple had a story, but I didn’t think any of them could top mine and Susan’s.

I drove through the village and headed toward Stanhope Hall.

Carolyn asked me, “Are you happy, Dad?”

“What man wouldn’t be happy about getting married?”

Carolyn is not into my humor and asked again, “Are you happy?”

I glanced at her and said, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t happy to be here.”

“I know.”

I said to her, “Your mother, too, is very happy.”

“I know that. We speak or e-mail twice a day.”

Of course.

To put the ball in her court, I said, “Well, I’m getting married for the second time, and you haven’t been married even once.”

“Dad.”

We chatted about her job and caught up on other subjects.

Carolyn, as she did every summer, had spent a week in London in August, and this was our time together each year, except for when I came to New York for funerals, weddings, and business trips. So she said to me, “I guess I’m not visiting you in London this year.”

I smiled and replied, “No. But your mother and I are going to London, maybe very soon, to move me out.” Carolyn likes London, so I asked, “Why don’t you come with us?”

She replied, “I don’t think I can get away on short notice, but thanks.” Then she suggested, “Why don’t you keep your London flat?”

I thought about that, and it wasn’t a bad idea, depending on future finances. But I wasn’t sure if Susan would be in favor of that. In any case, I might be using the flat myself if the Stanhopes got their daughter back. I said to my daughter, “That’s an idea.”

As we approached Stanhope Hall, Carolyn asked me, “How are Grandpa and Grandma?”

“They’re wonderful.”

“I got your e-mail.”

“Good.”

“So? How are you getting along with them?”

“Not bad, actually.”

“Are they happy for you and Mom?”

“I thought you were in daily contact with your mother.”

“We haven’t spoken much about that.”

“Well, let’s save that for when Edward gets in.”

I’d gotten my new remote control from one of the security men – the company was called All-Safe Security, which seemed redundant – and he’d also given me the new pass code, with the wise advice that I shouldn’t be giving it out to a lot of people I didn’t know. I love dealing with overtrained underachievers. Yes, I am a snob.

Also, of course, in situations such as this, the line between the guards and the guarded becomes blurred, and the distinction between being protected and being a prisoner with a pass is very subtle.

As the gates swung open, the All-Safe Security guard (ASS guy) stepped out of the gatehouse-guardhouse, and he actually recognized me from thirty minutes ago and waved me through. It helped, too, that I had the remote control and the same car I’d left in.

Carolyn remarked, “Mom mentioned about the guys at the gates.”

“No big deal.”

She dropped that and asked, “Are Grandpa and Grandma home?”

I wish they were. I said, “They’ve decided to stay in a cottage at The Creek.”

“Why?”

They’re assholes. I replied, “They thought they’d be more comfortable there, and they wanted to take some work off your mother.”

Carolyn didn’t respond.

I really needed Carolyn and Edward to have positive feelings toward Gramps and Granny. I mean, these kids are amazingly nonjudgmental about those two, and as far as I knew, Edward and Carolyn actually liked Count Dracula and his wife. But we were at a critical juncture here, and we were all sharing the same zip code, if not the same house, so we needed to remind the children of how much they loved G amp;G. Plus, someone needed to brief Edward and Carolyn on the financial facts of life. And that was really a job for Susan. I suppose I could be present at this talk, but it wasn’t my money. Plus, I might say something that could be misconstrued, such as, “Your grandparents are scum-sucking pigs.”

Anyway, I said to Carolyn, “We’ll see Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow night at the funeral home.”

Carolyn asked about another one of my favorite people. “How’s Grandma Harriet?”

“She’s very well and is looking forward to seeing you and Edward.” And, hopefully, you’re both in her will.

To say something nice about Harriet, she is fond of her only two grandchildren. She’s not huggy-kissy, but she keeps in close contact with them, and she’s sort of a mentor to Carolyn, instructing her granddaughter on the finer points, for instance, of recycling the kitchen garbage into tasty snacks for illegal immigrants from San Picador, or wherever they come from. Edward is a bit of a challenge for her, but if she can get him to start shutting off the lights, then she’s done a good thing for Edward and the environment.

But beyond the brainwashing, I think she sees Edward and Carolyn as her opportunity to make up for her failures with John and Emily. And that, too, is a good thing.

As I continued up the tree-lined drive, I asked Carolyn, “Does it feel good to be home?”

She replied, without inflection, “Yes.”

Carolyn actually never cared much for God’s Heaven on Earth, or its inhabitants, or its country clubs, cocktail parties, lifestyles, reactionary politics, or anything about it. Susan and I did, however, make her go to the Debutantes Ball under threat of being grounded for the rest of her life.

She asked me, “Are you happy to be home?”

“It’s good.”

I parked the car in the forecourt, and we went to the front door, which I unlocked. Carolyn, perhaps putting this together with the guards at the gate, asked, “Why are you locking the door now?”

I replied, “Republican fundraisers have been walking into people’s houses and writing big contribution checks to the GOP.”

Although Carolyn doesn’t get or appreciate my humor, she did laugh at that.

Susan was upstairs, but she heard us coming in, and she hurried down the steps. Mother and daughter embraced and kissed, and I was smiling.

We went into the kitchen, where Sophie was laying out some fruit, cut vegetables, and to-die-for yogurt dip.

Susan had a bottle of champagne on ice in a bucket, and I popped the cork and poured three flutes of bubbly. I actually don’t like the stuff, but Susan and Carolyn have champagne taste, and I filled my glass and toasted, “To the Sutters.”

We touched glasses and drank.

The weather had cleared a bit, so we went out to the patio and sat at the table.

Susan and Carolyn were current with each other on all the news and happenings, and I realized I was a few months behind Carolyn’s life. I did know that Cliff got dumped, and now I heard about Stuart, her Petrossian date, who also had champagne taste and hopefully the money to afford it.

I wasn’t exactly bored, but I did change the subject to work, and Carolyn said, “Dad, you can’t believe the things I see, read, and hear every day.”

I thought I could. Well, Carolyn was seeing some of the dark side of American society, and this was good for a young lady raised at Stanhope Hall. Susan had never had much exposure to the underbelly of life, but Carolyn had, and with any luck, she knew better than to have an affair with a married Mafia don.

We avoided the subject of G amp;G, knowing we should save that until Edward showed up.

The portable phone rang, and I took it. It was the ASS guy asking if we were expecting an Edward Sutter, who had arrived by taxi.

I replied, “I believe that’s our son.”

“Just checking.”

We went out to the forecourt and waited for Edward.

A few minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up, and Edward jumped out with a big smile on his face.

Susan ran over to him, and they hugged and kissed. Then it was Carolyn’s turn – ladies first – then my turn. Edward gave me a tight hug and said, “Dad, this is really great.”

“You look terrific, Skipper. Good tan.”

So we all stood there, together as a family for the first time in ten years. I could see that Susan appreciated the moment, and I was sure she thought about her role in why it had taken us ten years to be standing here together, as well as why this moment was close to a miracle. In fact, I could see she was getting emotional, and I put my arm around her and showed the kids what a great and sensitive guy I am.

I was not raised in such a warm and demonstrative family, and neither was Susan, nor anyone we knew. Family relationships, in general, were cooler when we were growing up, and here, in our lofty strata of society, they were closer to freezing.

But the world had changed, and Susan and I had probably overcompensated for our affection-starved childhoods. I hoped that Edward and Carolyn, when they married and had children, would hug and kiss a lot, and not have affairs or kill their lovers.

I asked Edward if he had luggage, and he replied as Carolyn had that he had another wardrobe here, though he didn’t call it a wardrobe. It was stuff.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough stuff on him to pay the cab, as usual, so I took care of it with a big tip. The driver said to me, “Thanks. Hey, this is some mansion.”

I didn’t want to tell him that the mansion was up the road, so I said, “Have a nice day.”

Edward remembered his overnight bag in the back seat and stopped the driver and retrieved it. Was I this spacey? I didn’t think so. I should ask Harriet. She’d be honest with me. Brutally honest.

We sat on the back patio, Susan and I holding hands on the table, and we had another champagne toast to the Sutters and ate the fruit and vegetables that Sophie had carried out for us. How did I do without a Sophie for seven years in London?

Edward and Carolyn, I should mention, who were raised with household help, never got comfortable with the concept, and always seemed awkward around domestic staff. Susan, on the other hand, had grown up thinking that everyone, including probably the homeless, had at least a maid to clean the refrigerator box they lived in.

I asked Edward, “How was your flight?”

“Okay. But this airport stuff sucks. I got pulled over.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Edward didn’t look like a terrorist, but I took the occasion to remark on his black jeans and black skintight T-shirt. I informed him, “If you put on good trousers and a real shirt and a sports jacket, preferably a blue blazer such as I am wearing, everyone will see you as a person of substance and importance, and they will treat you with courtesy and respect.” I reminded him, “Clothes make the man.”

He replied, “Dad.”

Susan said, “John.”

Carolyn just rolled her eyes.

Then we all laughed.

Edward asked me, “What’s with the guys at the gatehouse?”

I replied, “As your mother e-mailed you, Mr. Nasim has become concerned – perhaps because of 9/11 – that there may be people who want to harm him.”

Edward asked, “Who?”

“I think his fellow countrymen.”

“Wow. Can they do that? I mean, like, here?”

“Well… times have changed.” I rehashed my joke and said, “I checked the town ordinances, and it says that no political assassinations are allowed Monday to Saturday before eight A.M. or after six P.M. And none on Sunday.”

Edward, at least, thought that was funny. I moved on to the purpose of their visit, and Susan and I told them about the wake the previous night, and she also announced, “We’ll all go tonight for only half an hour, then I hope we can all go to dinner together.”

Everyone seemed agreeable to that, and Susan suggested, “Why don’t we go to Seawanhaka for old time’s sake?”

Carolyn feigned some enthusiasm, and Edward truly didn’t care, so it was settled.

Susan needed to talk about Grandpa and Grandma, and we’d prearranged this, so I poured the last of the champagne into everyone else’s glass and said, “I need to make an important phone call. About fifteen minutes.”

I went inside and made myself an important vodka and tonic, then went to my office.

As I said, this was a Stanhope family matter, and I would leave it to Susan to tell Edward and Carolyn as much or as little as she thought they needed to know.

If she was honest with them, she’d tell them that Gramps and Granny were not thrilled that I was back, and that their kindly old grandparents might threaten to lock Mommy out of the vault if we remarried. Or cohabitated, or if I came within a thousand miles of my ex-wife. And if Susan was completely honest with them, and with herself, she’d alert them that their trust funds and their inheritance were also at risk.

As I said, neither Edward nor Carolyn seem that interested in money, and I think they’d be more hurt about their grandparents’ attitude than about the millions.

Eventually, though, we’d all feel the financial squeeze, but hopefully that would bring us closer together as a family. We could all move into Carolyn’s one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and sit around the table eating Hamburger Helper while badmouthing Grandpa and Grandma: “I told you he was a scum-sucking pig, kids. Pass the Kool-Aid.”

I checked our telephone messages, and there was one from Mr. Mancuso, who said, “Still no sign of him. I’ll call Mrs. Sutter’s cell phone if that changes. And I’ll call either way Saturday from the cemetery. Also, we spoke to Tony Rosini, and he don’t know nothing. But we’ll keep on that. Also, FYI, Sally Da-da is going about his normal routine – but with extra bodyguards. Call me if you need anything.”

Well, I hope Uncle Sal didn’t take advantage of the family discount and hire Bell Security Service. I’d recommend the ASS men to him, if I saw him.

Regarding Anthony – where the hell was this guy? He must know by now, from his friends and employees, that the Feds and the police had been asking about him. Not to mention Uncle Sal, who surely wanted to know where his nephew was. And me, too. The only one who probably didn’t care was his wife.

Anyway, I accessed my e-mail and saw a message from Samantha: You haven’t called this week and you haven’t e-mailed. What am I to assume from that?

Well, you should assume that this is not a good sign.

Or you could assume that I’m dead. But you would never guess that Bachelor John is engaged to be married.

I really liked Samantha, and I wanted to be totally honest with her, but the problem was that she knew people in my office. And if I told her that I was never coming back, then that would get back to my employers, who promised, in writing, that my position in the firm was secure until September 1.

Meanwhile, back at the estate, it appeared that my job offer with La Cosa Nostra was off the table, my first clue being that the CEO who interviewed me now wanted to kill me. Plus, Mr. Nasim’s offer to me of a ten percent commission if I could facilitate the sale of the guest cottage to him might also be off the table, as a result of my marrying the property owner. I could see why he’d think there was a conflict of interest there, and why he’d just wait until Susan and I had more security hassles than we wanted.

The bright spot here was William’s offer to buy me out. So, to crunch some numbers, I had the impression from Susan that her allowance was about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year – which was considerably more than the five bucks a week that I used to get from my parents. But the cost of living has gone up, so maybe Susan’s five thousand dollars a week is a reasonable allowance. Plus, if William gave me a million, paid in ten annual installments, he’d have to clip one hundred thousand dollars off Susan’s allowance every year to make it up, and to teach her a lesson. But if he didn’t want to do that, then it came out of his own pocket. Ouch!

Also, I didn’t think he’d be around for ten years, unless he cut back on the martinis. Or was that what was keeping him alive?

Actually, this was all moot. I really wasn’t going to take his money. I was going to take his daughter. And I didn’t care if he cut her off. I didn’t want his or her money. But what about Edward and Carolyn?

And for that matter, what about Susan? Was she really ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, raise her middle finger to Mom and Dad, and join me in yelling, “Vaffanculo!”?

And was I ready to let her do that?

Those were the questions of the moment, so I didn’t know if I needed a return ticket to London.

I e-mailed Samantha: I apologise (with an s), and I have no explanation for my lack of communication. We do need to speak, and I will call you Monday, latest. I left it unsigned, and without a closing sentiment, as she had done.

Well, that was a step in the right direction. I was never sure about Samantha anyway – I date women I couldn’t possibly marry, or who announced early that they wouldn’t marry me if their lives depended on it. It’s worked well so far.

The intercom buzzed, and I picked it up. Susan said, “I’m still on the patio with Edward and Carolyn, if you’d like to join us.”

“Be right there.”

I left my vodka in the office, went back to the patio, and took a seat.

Susan said, “I think I’ve explained the situation correctly and clearly to Edward and Carolyn, and we’ve agreed that us being a family again is our only consideration.”

I looked at Edward, then at Carolyn, and back to Susan. I really did hope that she explained the situation correctly and clearly. And I’m sure she did, in regard to her own possible financial punishment for remarrying Dad. But I wasn’t certain that she’d taken the next step and explained that Grandpa might extend the punishment of their mother on to them.

I said, “All right.” I added, “Subject closed. Who wants more champagne?”

Susan and Carolyn did, and Edward and I opted for Irish champagne – beer.

Susan and Carolyn volunteered to get drinks, and Edward and I sat there.

He looked at me and said, “I can’t believe Grandpa would do that.”

I replied, “We don’t know what he’s going to do.” I added, “His bark is worse than his bite.” Which was totally not true; the old bastard bit hard.

Edward, sensitive soul that he is, said, “He should be happy that Mom is happy.”

“He might be. We don’t know.” I suggested, “Why don’t we all put this out of our minds and just have a nice family reunion?” I added, bluntly, “Be nice to Grandpa.”

“Okay.”

I still didn’t know if Susan had told the children that they might have to live on their salaries for the rest of their lives. That didn’t bother me as much as the thought of Peter Stanhope, useless turd and soon-to-be brother-in-law, getting it all. Well, if the time came, I might be able to scare him into handing over some bucks to his niece and nephew, which was better for him than John Sutter holding him up in court for ten years.

Edward said, “Mom really loves you.”

“That’s why I’m here, Skipper.” I added, of course, “I love her.”

The object of my affection came out carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of bubbly, and Carolyn had the beer and glasses on a tray.

We sat there, talking under the gray sky, and now and then the clouds would break, and sunshine covered the patio and the Sutters.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

We arrived at Walton’s Funeral Home at about 7:30 P.M., and we all signed the visitors’ book, which fortunately didn’t have Time In and Time Out columns.

This, the second night of the wake, would usually be the last viewing, but Ethel, God rest her soul, wanted to make sure that no one else rested, so – Held Over by Popular Demand, Ethel Allard, Appearing Friday Night for the Last Time Anywhere.

The Sutters went to the coffin, and we paid our respects to the deceased and said our silent prayers. Carolyn and Edward have not seen much death in their young lives, and they were clearly uncomfortable in the presence of mortality. Carolyn was actually crying, and Edward looked very sad. They both liked Ethel, and the feeling had been mutual, and I was happy that they were able to feel grief and loss.

Once more, I took the lead and moved us away from the coffin.

We greeted Elizabeth and her family again, and I took the opportunity to reintroduce Edward and Carolyn to Tom Junior and Betsy, whom they’d both not seen in at least ten years. I noticed now that there was an age difference of six or seven years between Elizabeth’s children and mine, which was significant at that age, but not an insurmountable obstacle if they liked each other. But perhaps the timing and the setting were wrong for me to try to fan the flames of passion. In fact, I didn’t even see a spark. Oh well.

Tom Corbet and Laurence were there again, and I gave Tom credit for being a good ex-husband and an involved father. My own performance as an ex-husband, I thought, had been appropriate for the circumstances, and I would have been a better divorced father if I hadn’t left town for a decade. But that was water under the bridge, over the dam, under my hull, and an ocean away.

I suggested that we move around, so we worked Parlor A a bit, then moved into the sitting room to see if there was anyone there that we needed to greet. You get points and give points for going to a wake, and everyone wanted their visit noted. We all get a turn in the coffin, so you have to do some advance work if you want a good crowd when it’s your turn.

Susan, Edward, and Carolyn spoke to some people they knew, and it seemed to be a different crowd tonight, so I knew a few people as well, including Beryl Carlisle, a married lady who used to flirt with me whenever possible, and who was now divorced, as I was – so what was I doing tonight?

Well, Susan and I were back together. Isn’t that great? And, in fact, there she is. Susan, come over and say hello to Beryl. Excuse me.

When I lived here, the bane of my existence had been weddings and funerals – too many of both – not to mention christenings, engagement parties, birthdays, and retirement parties. I mean, if we have to celebrate people’s life transitions, why not a divorce party? I’m in.

I checked my watch and saw that only twenty minutes had passed, though it seemed much longer. I made my way back to the lobby, where the exit sign beckoned.

Susan was supposed to be rounding up the troops, but she was taking her time, and I waited, staring intently at one of those quasi-spiritual paintings – this one had sunlight streaming through the clouds into a forest, where little sylvan creatures lived in peace and harmony. Dreadful. But better than making more deadly conversation with my fellow mourners.

Susan came up behind me and said, “We’re ready.”

I turned and saw that our group had grown. Susan announced, “Tom and Betsy would like to join us.”

That was a hopeful sign. But for some reason, my mother was also standing there, and she informed me, “Susan has also invited me to join you.”

How did she get here? I recovered nicely and said, “Grandma never needs an invitation.”

So off we went, with Edward and Carolyn bravely volunteering to ride with Grandma, who is new to driving, and has been for fifty years. Tom Junior and Betsy came with us, and they were happy to get sprung early from Walton’s, and they were chatty. Nice kids. I wondered if Betsy would like L.A. Tom told me he wanted to move to Manhattan. Or if he couldn’t afford Manhattan, then Brooklyn. Great idea.

We were shown to a round table in the dining room at Seawanhaka, and I made sure the kids sat together, and that Susan sat between me and Harriet.

The waitress took drink orders, but Harriet wasn’t drinking because she had to drive, though she drove the same, drunk or sober. I decided that Susan was the designated driver, so that left me to have a double Scotch on the rocks. The kids shared a bottle of white wine.

They all seemed to be getting along well, and we didn’t intrude on their conversation, except that I mentioned how much I loved Los Angeles. I think I also said that Brooklyn was becoming the Left Bank of New York. Susan gave me a little kick under the table.

Harriet was actually quite pleasant, but that had more to do with Susan than with me. She liked Susan, and always had, despite the fact that Susan had made a poor marital choice.

A few other refugees from Parlor A drifted in, and Harriet and Susan worked the room a little, and I took the opportunity to go out on the back porch with my drink and look at the sailboats swaying at their moorings.

Despite the money, and the relatively large population, this place sometimes has the feel of small-town America. That’s the nice part of living here. But it’s also the drawback. You can isolate yourself, especially if you have enough land and money – but you can’t really be anonymous.

I liked London because in London I had no past, and as in any big city, you could keep to yourself, or you could find company, anytime and anyplace, on any day you wished. Here you were part of a community, whether you liked it or not.

I could see why young people – like the four sitting at the table – would want to live in L.A., or New York, or anyplace where they could do what they wanted, when they wanted, and do it with whomever they wanted.

I didn’t know if my London days were over for sure, or if I’d wind up in Manhattan, or here, or in Walton’s. It was hard to believe that two idiots – Anthony Bellarosa and William Stanhope – could alter my future, and Susan’s future, and our future together.

Harriet drove the Corbet kids back to their mother’s house, and the Sutters headed back to Stanhope Hall.

I said to Edward and Carolyn, “I’m glad you were able to spend some time with Grandma Harriet.”

They agreed, and Carolyn said, “She’s really neat.”

Maybe it is me. I said, “Make sure you keep in touch with her.” Aside from a few thousand sea otters, she’s got only four likely human heirs, and she’s not fond of two of them.

I asked, offhandedly, “How did you guys get along with Tom and Betsy?”

No reply.

I said, “You seemed to be having a good time.”

Edward said, “They’re nice.”

I pressed on, “They seem like great kids.”

No reply.

Susan said, “John.”

I didn’t reply.

Before we got to Grace Lane, Susan called Sophie on the house phone and chatted a moment, before asking her, “Do we have onions for tomorrow?”

Sophie replied, “We got no onions here.”

“Okay, I’ll get some tomorrow. See you in a few minutes.” She glanced at me, and I nodded, happy that Sophie didn’t have a gun to her head, which was what “no onions” meant.

We hadn’t actually told Sophie about the little Mafia problem, of course, or even about the Iranian assassin problem. We just told her that we’d put in some security in case of trespassers or maybe burglars. She didn’t seem too happy about that, but she understood the concept of coded passwords: onions or no onions. We’d actually gone through tomatoes, garlic, and cucumbers before we settled on onions. She liked onions.

When we got to Grace Lane, I used Susan’s cell phone to call the gatehouse and announce our imminent arrival. So when we got to the gates, they were already open, and the ASS guy waved us through. Maybe this would work out.

Back in the guest cottage, the four of us sat in the upstairs family room and talked, as we’d done so many nights, so many years ago. And it was almost like old times. Better yet, it was like we’d been doing this for the last ten years.

I looked at Susan and saw she was as happy as I’d ever seen her. Well, it’s true; we don’t know what we have until we lose it. And if we can get it back, it’s better than it was the first time.

At about midnight, we all hugged, kissed, and said good night.

I said to Edward and Carolyn, “Try to be down for breakfast at nine.”

Susan said, “Sleep as late as you want.”

Who’s in charge here?

Susan and I got ready for bed, which included breaking out the arsenal. She said to me, “I want the shotgun tonight.”

“You had the shotgun last night.”

“No, I had the carbine.”

“Why do you always do this?”

She laughed, then gave me a big hug and said, “John, I’m so happy. But I’m also frightened.”

“Are you?”

“A little. Sometimes.”

“That’s okay.” I let her know, “Mancuso left a message. Anthony is still missing.”

“Good.”

Not good. I said, “He may show up Saturday at Gotti’s funeral, and Mancuso will be there.”

“He should arrest him.”

I’d rather have Uncle Sal whack him, which would solve a lot of people’s problems. But for now, Uncle Sal was a bit jittery, too.

I said to her, “I promise you, this will all be over very soon.”

She didn’t want to know how I knew that, and she moved on to another problem and informed me, “Edward and Carolyn understand that their grandfather disapproves of our marriage, and that he may end my allowance, and possibly disinherit me.”

“Okay. And do they understand that the same thing may happen to them?”

“I didn’t raise that issue.”

“Well, you should have.”

“John, that will not happen.”

“All right.” I asked, “Did you tell them to be extra sweet to Grandma and Grandpa?”

“I did not.” She assured me, “They love their grandparents and don’t need to be told to be nice to them.”

Unlike, for instance, John Sutter. I said, “All right.” No use speculating; we’d see who was right about that. I moved on to another important question and asked, “Where’s my Yale T-shirt?”

“In the wash.”

“How long will it be in the wash?”

“For a long time.”

This sounded to me like it might be in heaven. I like to sleep au naturel, anyway, so I got undressed and got into bed.

Susan got undressed, too, and said, “You were very nice to your mother tonight.”

“She’s a lovely woman.”

“She loves you, John.”

“I can tell.”

“And I want to do something nice for you for being so good with my parents, your mother, and for behaving in the funeral home.”

“What sort of positive reinforcement did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of a blow job.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Carolyn made it down for breakfast at 9:00 A.M., but Edward did not. Susan reminded me, “It’s six A.M. in Los Angeles.”

I replied, “We’re in New York. And six A.M. anywhere in the world is a good time to rise and shine.”

Mother and daughter rolled their eyes and went back to their granola and newspapers.

It was a rainy day, so our options were limited, but we decided to go into the city and hit a museum, then, of course, Susan wanted to shop for clothes with Carolyn. My mission was to bully Edward into buying a suit and some new sports jackets.

While we were waiting for Prince Edward to arise, I scanned the tabloids and found a piece about John Gotti. The latest in the ongoing saga of Mr. Gotti’s inconvenient body was that it was still resting comfortably at the Papavero Funeral Home, but as Mancuso already knew, it would be moved to a chapel at St. John’s Cemetery in Queens on Saturday morning, which was tomorrow. The public was not invited.

On that subject, there was still no word from Mr. Mancuso regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts, but Mr. Mancuso did say he’d call us either way from the cemetery to let us know whether or not Anthony was among the select group of invited friends and family. My hunch was still that Anthony Bellarosa’s next public appearance would be at Uncle Sal’s funeral, or his own. As long as it wasn’t my or Susan’s funeral.

Anyway, the article in the tabloid went into some background about Mr. Gotti’s career, including people he personally murdered, and people whom he had ordered to be murdered, including his boss, Paul Castellano, who’d been shot in front of Sparks, one of my favorite steakhouses. Give that place another bullet. It occurred to me that if I’d had my partners whacked ten years ago, I’d still be at 23 Wall Street, and the only name on the door would be mine.

Well, that would be an extreme management style, and probably not appropriate for a white-shoe law firm. But still…

On the personal front, the article mentioned the tragic death of Mr. Gotti’s twelve-year-old son Frank, who had been killed in the street in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, Queens, as a result of a neighbor, named John Favara, running over the boy while he was riding his minibike. The death was ruled an accident, but accident or not, four months later, Mr. Favara disappeared, never to be seen again. I recalled when this tragedy happened, and when I read of Mr. Favara’s disappearance four months later, I wondered if anyone had suggested to him that he might have a better and longer life if he moved out of the neighborhood.

But you should never criticize other people’s bad decisions. I mean, as unlikely as it seems, anyone could find himself living next door to a Mafia don who has a personal vendetta against him. In fact, I knew of one such couple. Maybe they should move.

Another personal bit of information about the late John Gotti was that he, like Frank Bellarosa, was a big fan of Niccolò Machiavelli. Well, it’s good to see tough guys trying to improve their minds by reading the Renaissance masters. You’re never too old to learn something new about human nature, how to win friends and influence people, and running a principality or a criminal empire.

On that subject, the article also mentioned that Mr. Gotti saw himself as a Caesar. So apparently he tried to combine these two different management styles – dictatorial and cunning. Apparently, too, he’d succeeded to some extent, just as had Frank Bellarosa, who, in addition to being Machiavellian, was also a big fan of Benito Mussolini.

People like this – Italian or otherwise – love power, and they love to wield power. And you can tell where they’re coming from by the role models they choose. Anthony Bellarosa – Little Caesar – however, was, I thought, basically a man with delusions of grandeur, and he was a failed successor to his father’s empire. But this was not my problem – my problem was that he was a dangerous thug who acted on impulse. His instincts, like his father’s, may have been good, because it certainly wasn’t his brains that had kept him alive so long. I recalled that outthinking Frank Bellarosa was like matching wits with a worthy opposing general; outthinking Anthony was like trying to outthink a predatory animal, who has no intellect – just an empty stomach that needs to be filled.

Well, back to John Gotti. The article also mentioned Mr. Gotti’s penchant for two-thousand-dollar Brioni suits. I said to Susan, “I’m going to buy Edward a Brioni suit.”

“Are they good suits?”

“Excellent. About two thousand dollars.” I added, “Handmade in Italy.”

“You should buy one for yourself.”

“Why not? Maybe we’ll get a deal.”

Edward appeared around 10:00 A.M., and while he was having coffee, Susan made him his favorite breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and heavily buttered biscuits. This is also my favorite breakfast so I said, “I’ll have the same.”

“No you won’t.”

I mean, someone was trying to kill us, so what difference did it make to my longevity if I ate unhealthy foods? What am I missing here?

Susan had decided to get a car and driver for our city adventure – no waiting in the rain for taxis and no parking hassles – and the car showed up at eleven. It’s true – rich or poor, it’s nice to have money.

Our first stop in Manhattan was the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue, and I asked Susan if her friend Charlie Frick worked there. She didn’t reply, so I don’t know, and I didn’t see her there.

We sucked up one hour and twenty-seven minutes of art, then had a great lunch at La Goulue, one of my favorite restaurants on the Upper East Side.

Edward, deep down inside, is a New Yorker, and most of his friends live in this city, but he’s chosen a career and maybe a life that will keep him on the West Coast. Susan can’t come to grips with this, but if she had the Stanhope fortune, she’d find a way to get Edward back. Ironically, for an investment of only about fifty thousand dollars, I could have asked Anthony to think of a way to speed up her inheritance. That’s really not a nice thought. It’s moot, anyway; I had my chance, but the timing was wrong.

After lunch, the car dropped Edward and me off at Brioni’s on East 52nd, and the ladies stayed with the car to sack and pillage along Madison and Fifth Avenues.

Edward is as fond of shopping as I am, but we did get him a Brioni suit with matching accessories. Edward really didn’t want a two-thousand-dollar suit, but I told him it would make his mother happy, and it was her Amex card, so all it was costing him was some time and a little boredom. The suit would be ready in eight weeks and sent to Los Angeles. In my next life, I want to be Susan Stanhope’s son. Actually, she did tell me to get one for myself, but we needed to start economizing, though Susan hadn’t come to grips with that yet.

Edward and I decided that was enough shopping for one day, and Edward called the car on his cell phone, and we were picked up and delivered to the Yale Club on Vanderbilt Avenue.

We sat in the big main lounge, read the newspapers, talked, and had a few glasses of tomato juice into which, I believe, someone had added vodka.

Susan called Edward’s cell at five, and he said we were having afternoon tea at the Yale Club. He’s a good boy. Chip off the old block.

Rush-hour traffic in the rain on a Friday was a mess, so we didn’t get home until after 7:00 P.M.

I was shocked to discover that the trunk of the car was filled with boxes and bags, and it took the four of us, plus the driver, to carry them into the house. But before I could make a sarcastic remark, Susan announced, “Carolyn and I bought you a tie.”

Well, I felt just awful about what I almost said, so I did say, “Thank you. I hope you didn’t spend too much.”

I thought I should tell Susan, privately, that she should be storing her acorns for what might be a money famine, but she had as much information as I did on that subject, so maybe that’s what she was doing – storing Armani, Escada, Prada, and Gucci for lean times. Good thinking. Plus, with the Brioni suit, we’d kept the Italian economy in good shape.

I checked for phone messages, and there were several, but none from Mr. Mancuso, who in any case would have called Susan’s cell phone if he had anything important to tell us.

I also checked my e-mail, and there was a message from Samantha that said, Flying to New York tomorrow. Arriving late afternoon. Meet me at The Mark at seven.

Good hotel, but I didn’t think that was going to work out, so I quickly typed, The Mafia is trying to kill me, and I’m engaged to be married. Hard to believe, but… There had to be a better way to say that. I deleted and typed, Dear Samantha, My ex-wife and I have reunited and-

Susan walked in and asked me, “Who are you e-mailing?”

I pushed delete and said, “My office.”

“Why?”

“I’m resigning.”

“Good.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Let me help,” she offered.

“Well…” I looked at my watch. “This could take a while, and we should get to the funeral home.”

“This will take a few minutes.”

I guess the time had come to burn a bridge that I’d intended to leave standing. So, with Susan’s help, I crafted a very nice, thoughtful, and positive letter to my firm, letting them know what a difficult decision this was for me, and expressing my hope that this did not cause them any inconvenience, and so forth, assuring them that I would be in London in a few weeks to gather my personal items, and brief my replacement, and sign whatever paperwork was necessary for my separation from the firm.

Susan suggested, “Tell them you’re getting married.”

“Why?”

“So they understand why you’re not returning.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“They’ll be happy for you.”

“They don’t care. They’re British.”

“Nonsense. Tell them.”

So I announced my good news, which would get to Samantha, via phone or e-mail, within nanoseconds. Well, it was 2:00 A.M. in London so I had some time tonight to e-mail her.

I pressed the send button, and off it went to London. These things should have a one-minute delay so you can reconsider, or at least get your wife or girlfriend out of the room.

Bottom line here was that I had been trying to cover all my bases and play all the angles. But in the final analysis, I needed to take a leap of faith and hope for the best.

If I had to leave Susan, it would not be because I wanted to leave her. It would be because I had to leave her to ensure her future, and the future of our children. It’s a far, far better thing I do, and all that.

Or, quite possibly, she’d make the hard decision for those same reasons. A mother’s instinct is to protect her children, and I understood that.

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

“I’m thinking about you and Edward and Carolyn… and how good it is that we have this time together.”

“We have the rest of our lives together.”

And that was the other problem.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

We arrived at Walton’s at 8:15, and as always, on the last night of the viewing, everyone who’d put it off was there, plus there was a large contingent of church ladies from St. Mark’s in attendance.

We went through the usual routine at the coffin – Ethel still looked good – then said hello to the front-row ticket holders, then worked Parlor A again, then checked out the lobby and the sitting room. I had a strong sense of déjà vu.

William and Charlotte were there, though I didn’t get the opportunity to speak to them. Actually, we avoided one another. My mother, too, was there, and I made sure to say hello.

Also there was Diane Knight, Ethel’s hospice nurse, which was nice, but I noticed that I never see the deceased’s attending physician at the funeral home. I guess that could be awkward.

I also spotted Ethel’s accountant, Matthew Miller, and I spoke to him for a minute about getting together for Ethel’s final accounting. I mean, you should not actually do business at the funeral home, but you can make appointments.

Susan’s luncheon companion, Charlie Frick, was also there, and I introduced myself and told her I’d gone to her museum earlier in the day. I let her know, “Nice place. Lots of artwork.” Then I drew her attention to the dreadful inspirational painting in the lobby, and said, “That would look good in the Frick.”

She excused herself and moved off, probably to speak to Susan about me.

I also ran into Judy Remsen, who’d been a good friend of ours in the old days, and she seemed delighted to see me. She already knew our good news and was very happy for us. This is the lady who had caught us in flagrante delicto patio, and I’m sure she remembered that every time she saw me. I didn’t mention the incident of course, but I did say, “Stop by next week and join us for sundowners on the patio.”

“I… yes, that sounds wonderful.”

“Call ahead.” I smiled.

She excused herself.

Then I ran into Lester Remsen, Judy’s husband, who had also been a friend as well as my stockbroker. Lester and I had had a falling-out over my bringing Frank and Anna Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner. Susan had also been at the dinner, of course, but she got a pass on that, as she gets a pass on nearly everything. I’m always the bad guy. But, hey, I just suck it up.

Lester offered his professional services if I should need them again. Defense stocks and electronic security were hot at the moment. I said, “Hazmat suits. That’s going to be big.”

I also saw the DePauws, the couple who lived in the house on the hill across from the gates of Alhambra, where the FBI had set up their observation post to photograph cars and guests arriving at Frank’s estate – myself and Susan included – and I asked him if he was still doing that for the FBI.

He said no, and the DePauws excused themselves.

Beryl Carlisle avoided me, and Althea Gwynn snubbed me.

It’s wonderful to be back.

In the lobby, I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings. This is a man who, as I’ve mentioned, is not my favorite man of the cloth, though he seems to be everyone else’s. So maybe it’s me. But I think it’s him.

Anyway, he spotted me, walked over, and said in his pulpit voice, “Good evening!”

“Good evening!” I replied, without, I hope, mimicking him.

“And how have you been, John?” “

“Great.” Until five seconds ago. I inquired, “How have you been?”

“I have been well. Thank you for asking.”

“And Mrs. Hunnings? How has she been?”

“She is well, and I will tell her you asked about her.”

I never understood why his wife hadn’t had an affair. She was actually quite attractive, and she had a little sparkle in her eye.

He asked me, “Do you have a moment?”

“Uh… well…”

“I would like to speak to you in private.”

Well, I was a little curious, but I also wanted to get to my cocktail. Decisions, decisions. I said, “All right.”

He led me up the stairs of the old Victorian house to a door with a cross on it, which I assumed was reserved for clergy of the Christian faith.

The room had a desk and a grouping of chairs around a table, and we sat at the table.

He began, “First, I want to welcome you home.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you will be rejoining the Saint Mark’s family.”

I guess he meant the congregation. It was hard to follow the newspeak after you’d been gone awhile. Anyway, this was my chance to tell him I’d become a Buddhist, but instead I replied, “I am sure I will.”

He continued, “I’ve heard, of course, that you and Susan have reunited.”

“Good news travels fast.”

“Indeed, it does.” He went on, “I assume you and Susan plan to remarry at Saint Mark’s.”

“That would be fitting.” Do we get the repeat discount?

“Well, then, I hope you and Susan will consider prenuptial counseling.”

I’d already gotten that from William, but I replied, “Well, we’ve been married. To each other.”

“I know that, John, but, if I may be candid, the circumstances of your separation and divorce should be addressed in a pastoral counseling context, which I am happy to provide.”

“Well… you know, Father, it’s been so long since we divorced, that I can barely remember what led us to that decision.”

He found that a little hard to believe – and so did I – but he advised, “Speak to Susan about counseling, and please get back to me on that.”

“Will do.”

He made a final pitch and said, “You want to build on a solid foundation, so your house will not crumble again.”

“Good analogy.” I had the uncharitable thought that Father Hunnings just wanted to learn all the inside juicy details of Susan’s affair, her murder of Frank Bellarosa, and maybe even our sex lives since then. I gave myself a sharp mental slap on the face and said, “I appreciate your concern.”

He replied, “I am just doing my job, John, and trying to do God’s work.”

“Right. Well… yeah. Good.” I glanced at my watch.

He continued, “And speaking of houses, I understand that you and Susan are living together.”

Who ratted? Well, I knew where this was going, so I replied, “I’m sleeping in a guest room.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.” This was really unbelievable, but you had to put yourself in his shoes, I guess. He had to be able to say he’d brought this up with one of the sinners, and that he’d made his disapproval known. I could almost hear him at the dinner table tonight with his wife – What was her name? Sarah? Really attractive.

“John? I said, This would not be a God-pleasing relationship if you were sharing the same bed.”

I was starting to feel like I was eighteen, which was kind of fun. I replied, “I understand.”

“Good.” He then said, “I imagine that Edward and Carolyn are happy for you.”

“They’re thrilled.”

He then made some sort of mental leap and said, “Your mother has asked me to speak to you.”

“About what?”

He replied, “She mentioned to me that you and she had become estranged.” He added, “She was very upset that you were not here for your father’s funeral.”

“No more upset than I was when I found out he died.” I added, “I was at sea.”

“Yes, I know.” He changed the subject and inquired, “If I may ask, how have Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope received this news?”

That sounded like a question to which he already knew the answer. I replied, “They’re here for the funeral, so you should ask them directly, if you haven’t already.”

“I saw them here this evening. But we spoke only for a moment.”

Really? I informed him, “They’re in a cottage at The Creek, if you want to call them.”

Father Hunnings said, “They were always active and generous members of Saint Mark’s, and I respect them both greatly, and I know that Susan loves them both, so I am concerned for all of you if they have not given you their blessing.”

I took a deep breath and said to him, “I don’t care about their blessing – or their money. And neither should my mother, if that’s her concern. And if William and Charlotte are still making contributions to Saint Mark’s, then Susan and I can get married elsewhere, if that’s your concern.”

He held up his hand – Peace? Shut up? He said, “My concern, John, is that your marriage to Susan is not ill-advised, and that it fulfills your expectations and hers, and that you enter into the sacrament of Holy Matrimony with full knowledge of your duties and obligations.”

There was more going on here, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Though, if I took a wild guess, I’d say that William had already spoken to Father Hunnings, and told him that he and Mrs. Stanhope were vehemently opposed to this marriage, and would Father Hunnings be so kind as to speak to John and to Susan in a counseling session, and then, of course, separately. Divide and conquer. William would undoubtedly tell Father Hunnings that he thought John Sutter was a gold digger. And William might even tell Father Hunnings that John solicited a bribe from him to break off the impending engagement and marriage. And, of course, William would mention offhandedly a generous contribution to St. Mark’s.

I wouldn’t put any of this past Wily Willie. But I really didn’t think Father Hunnings would go along for the whole ride; he’d just take it as far as he could, and maybe see if William Stanhope had legitimate concerns. Or he’d take it to the next level and ask me about soliciting money from William. And maybe he’d even plant some seeds of doubt in Susan’s head.

William was a ruthless, Machiavellian prick, but rather than point that out to Father Hunnings, who thought well of William, I said, “Susan and I have decided to remarry, and that should not be anyone else’s business.”

“Of course,” he allowed, but then continued, “it’s just that this is so sudden after all these years of being apart, and you’ve only been together for… what? A week?”

“Since Sunday.” I added, “About noon.”

“Well, I am sure you will not rush into marriage without allowing some time to get to know each other again.”

“Good advice.” At least he could tell William he gave it a good shot. I stood and said, “Well, Susan and the children are probably wondering where I am.”

He stood too, but he was not finished. He said to me, “I visited with Mrs. Allard often while she was in hospice.” He let me know, “She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”

“She was one of a kind,” I agreed.

“She was. And she mentioned that you’d had a good visit at Fair Haven.”

“I’m sorry I missed you there.”

He continued, “She confided in me, as her priest, that she’d written you a letter.”

I looked at him, but did not respond.

He went on, “She told me in very general terms of the contents of that letter and asked if I thought she should give it to you.”

Again, I didn’t respond, so he said, “I believe Elizabeth was to give you the letter on Ethel’s death.” He asked, “Did she?”

I said, “I’d rather not discuss this.”

He nodded and said, “As you wish.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Oh. It’s almost time for prayers.”

We walked to the door together, and he said, “I hope you will be staying to pray with us.”

“I wish I could.”

We walked down the stairs, and I took the opportunity to tell him, “I am the attorney for Mrs. Allard’s estate, as you know, and while the will has not been admitted into probate as yet, I think I can reveal to you that Mrs. Allard has made a generous contribution to Saint Mark’s.”

We reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Hunnings nodded and said, with a good show of disinterest, “That was very beneficent of her.”

What was that word? I assured him, “The bequests should be distributed within eight weeks. If you’d like to be at the reading of the will, I’ll notify you of the time and place.” Or I’ll just put the five-hundred-dollar check in the mail, minus the postage.

Father Hunnings was trying to figure out how much money Ethel Allard could possibly have, and also if her beneficence to the church would significantly cut into her family’s share of the loot. He wouldn’t want to be sitting with them if he was going to be hauling away a good part of their inheritance. I’d seen this before.

Finally, he replied, “It’s not necessary that I be there.”

“If you change your mind, let me know.” I inquired, “Do you like cats?”

“Uh… not actually. Why?”

“Well… Mrs. Allard… but we can discuss that another time.”

We bid each other good evening.

I saw Susan in the lobby, and she informed me that her parents had left to have dinner with friends. This surprised me – not that they weren’t going to join the Sutters for dinner, but that they had friends.

Nevertheless, I said, “I’m surprised and annoyed that they passed up an opportunity to be with their grandchildren.”

Susan replied, “Well, they did speak to Edward and Carolyn.”

“And was it a happy reunion?”

“It seemed to be.”

That didn’t sound real positive. I said, “Your parents are avoiding me, and are sulking. And they know that Edward and Carolyn are very happy for us. Therefore, your parents are not happy with Edward and Carolyn.”

“John, let’s not overanalyze this.”

“All right. What are we doing now?”

“Do you want to stay for prayers?”

“I thought we could pray privately at a local bar.”

She smiled and said, “Let’s go to McGlade’s. We haven’t been there in a while.”

About ten years, actually. I said, “Sounds good.”

We rounded up the kids, and Susan passed on our destination to a number of people. Funeral customs vary widely in America, but around here, some people like to hit a bar after the last evening viewing of the body – especially if it’s a Friday night. What better place to deal with your grief?

So the Sutters made the two-minute trip to McGlade’s Pub in Station Plaza, where there was a lively Friday night crowd.

We gave the hostess our name and bellied up to the bar.

Susan and I chatted with some patrons, a few of them from Walton’s, Parlor A and Parlor B, and I was nice to almost everyone.

Edward and Carolyn spotted a few people their own age whom they knew, and they all gathered in a group at the far end of the bar.

The jukebox was playing sixties stuff, and the place was lively, and filled with commuters, townies, and assorted others of all social classes, which is the mark of a good pub. In fact, on the menu, as I recalled, it said, “McGlade’s – Where Debutantes and Mountain Men Meet.” Susan used to say that was us.

As the designated driver, I stuck to my light beer while Susan morphed from Lady Stanhope to Suzie, and banged down a few vodka and tonics. I could see that she was very popular, and it occurred to me that if I hadn’t come along when I did, she wouldn’t have been a widow for long.

After about forty-five minutes, the hostess had a table for us, and we decided to leave Edward and Carolyn at the bar with their friends, and we sat alone, which was nice. There was not a single healthy thing on the menu, so I had a great American pub-food dinner. Love those Buffalo wings.

It did seem like old times, except that at ten o’clock Susan called home before Sophie went to bed, and Sophie confirmed that as of that time, there were no Mafia hit men waiting in the kitchen for us. No onions.

At a little before midnight, we convinced the kids that they needed to leave with us, and a few minutes before we got to Stanhope Hall, Susan called the gatehouse, so when we got there the gates were open, and the guard waved us through. I stopped, however, got out, and explained to him, out of earshot of the children, about my problem with my Mafia neighbor, and he already knew a little about that. I said to him, “I’m going to call you from the house in about ten minutes. If I don’t, you call the police, and if you’d like, come to the guest cottage.” I added, “Gun drawn.”

I didn’t know how he was going to react to that, but he said, “Wait here and I’ll wake my relief guy, and I’ll come with you.”

I didn’t want to make a big thing of this in front of Edward and Carolyn, so I said, “That’s all right. Just wait for my call.”

He then informed me, “I’m an off-duty Nassau cop.” He introduced himself as Officer Dave Corroon and even flashed his creds in case I thought he was just a rent-a-cop with megalomania, like so many of these private security guys. He said, “My advice is to wait for me if you think there’s a potential problem at your house.”

I explained about not wanting to trouble my children. Then I gave him what we called in the Army the sign and countersign. Onions, no onions.

He thought that was clever.

I got back in the Lexus, but no one asked me what I was talking about to the guard, and I proceeded to the guest cottage.

Susan tried Sophie’s cell phone, then the house phone, but no one answered, and I assumed she was asleep.

As we all got out of the car, I said, “I need some fresh air. Let’s sit on the patio a minute and talk about tomorrow.”

Susan thought that was a good idea, and if Edward and Carolyn didn’t, they didn’t say anything.

Susan led them to the path on the side of the house, and I said, “I’ll be right there.”

I unlocked the front door and opened the foyer closet where I’d left the carbine, and it was still there. So I took it out and did a fast check of the first floor, then the second floor. In the master bedroom, I dialed the gatehouse, and Officer Corroon answered and asked, “Everything okay? You got onions?”

“No onions here.”

“Okay. Call if you think you see or hear onions.”

“Thanks.” I hung up, went downstairs, and put the carbine in the broom closet, then went out to the patio.

Susan and Carolyn were sitting at the table talking, and Edward was snoozing in a lounge chair.

We let him sleep, and we went through the itinerary for tomorrow. Depart here no later than 9:30 for the funeral Mass at St. Mark’s at 10:00 A.M. Then to the Stanhope cemetery for burial, and if Father Hunnings didn’t go on too long at graveside – pray for rain – we’d be out of the cemetery before noon, then back to St. Mark’s for a post-burial gathering in the basement fellowship room. Not my idea of a fun Saturday, but every day is not a beach day.

Carolyn inquired, “Should we synchronize our watches now?”

Susan thought that was funny. But if I’d said it…

Susan informed us, “Elizabeth is having friends and family to her house Saturday night, seven P.M., and I think we should go.”

I’d never actually been inside Elizabeth’s house, and I thought I should go see the guest room and check out the storage space in the basement. Just in case. I replied, “Fine. Okay – dismissed.”

Not even a smile.

Carolyn woke her brother, and they excused themselves and retired for the evening.

I needed a little nightcap after all that near-beer, so we went into the office and I poured myself a brandy.

I said to Susan, “Father Hunnings asked to speak to me privately in his branch office at the funeral home.”

“About what?”

I told her, and she thought about the conversation. She said, “I certainly don’t need prenuptial counseling, and I am very annoyed that my parents have spoken to him about us.”

I replied, “Their only concern is your happiness.”

“Then they should have no concerns. I’m happy. They are not.” She added, “They need the counseling.”

“They’d be so much happier if they gave us all their money.”

She smiled, then thought of something else and said, “I can’t believe Father Hunnings mentioned that we are living together.”

“Well, I think your parents brought that up, so he has to address it.”

“Why don’t they all mind their own business?”

“You know the answer to that.”

She didn’t respond and asked, “What do you think is in that letter?”

“Maybe something more important than I’d thought.”

“And Elizabeth has the letter?”

“She did have it.”

“You should ask her for it tomorrow night.”

“I will.”

She asked me what was going on at the gatehouse, and I told her, and said, “This guy, Officer Corroon, seems sharp.” I advised, “Get to know who the off-duty police are. The rest of them could have a second job with Bell Security for all I know.”

She nodded.

I asked, “Do you think the kids are getting wise to something?”

She replied, “They were very quiet in the car when you were talking to Officer Corroon… but I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

I said, “If they ask, we stick to the Nasim story.”

She thought about that, then said, “Sometimes I think we should tell them. For their own safety.”

“No. They’re already on the lookout for Iranian hit men. We don’t need to tell them that we really meant Italian hit men.” I added, “Carolyn will be gone Sunday night and Edward Monday morning, and I don’t want them worrying about us after they’ve left.”

She nodded, then switched to a happier subject and said, “That was fun at McGlade’s.”

“It was. Where debutantes and mountain men meet. Which reminds me, who was that mountain man who was hitting on you?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Have I ever been?”

“No. Well… when we were first dating.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I can refresh your memory if you’d like.”

“You make this stuff up.” I said, “Okay, we have a long day ahead of us, so we should get to bed, and not have sex.”

“Thank God.”

“I’ll check the doors and windows and be right up.”

She went upstairs, and I sat at the computer. It was almost 7:00 A.M. in London, so Samantha should get my e-mail before she had her first cup of coffee – assuming she checked her e-mail regularly, which she didn’t. I really didn’t want her to get on a plane to New York. I mean, I had enough problems here, and though Susan is not the jealous type, I was quite sure she didn’t want to have drinks at the Mark with Samantha.

So I began typing a very nice Dear Samantha letter, which I’d already composed in my mind, explaining the situation with honesty and regret. I didn’t mention the Mafia problem because she’d worry – though maybe me getting whacked would please her. You never know with women who have been scorned. Just look at Susan with Frank – whoops. Delete that.

I reread the letter, tweaked it, then pushed the send button, feeling as though I’d just pushed the detonate button to blow up my last bridge to London.

Well… there was no going back now. Actually, since last Sunday, there never was. Done.

I retrieved the rifle from the broom closet, checked all the windows and doors, then went up to the master bedroom.

Susan was lying in bed, naked, with a pillow under her butt. Bad back? Yoga? Ah! I get it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Saturday morning was rainy. Good funeral weather.

The Sutters, all dressed in black and carrying black umbrellas, piled into the Lexus. I drove, and within fifteen minutes we were parked near St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Locust Valley.

The small but handsome Gothic structure had been built at the turn of the last century with money that had been confiscated from a poker game being played by six millionaires in a Gold Coast mansion.

And who, you might ask, would confiscate money from millionaires enjoying a high-stakes poker game? Well, socialists would, or government tax men – but not to build a church. Actually, it was the men’s own wives, good Christian ladies, who were being playful, but who had probably been incited to rob from the rich – themselves – by the parish priest, who thought he needed a new church, and knew how to get it.

Hunnings, I’m sure, would do the same thing if given half a chance. In any case, it was a nice church, despite the sinful origins of the funding – gambling and robbery.

Susan, I, and the children did the meet-and-greet in the narthex, then we found a pew close to the front.

The church was about half full, which was not bad for the funeral service of an elderly woman on a rainy Saturday morning. I didn’t see William’s chestnut locks as we moved down the center aisle, or Charlotte’s emergency-exit red hair, which is hard to miss. So they weren’t here yet. Maybe they had too many martinis at dinner last night, got nasty, and their friends beat them up.

Ethel’s closed coffin was sitting on a bier near the altar rail, covered with a white pall. Some of the flower arrangements from the funeral home had been placed along the rail to brighten things up, and the organist was providing background music. The rain splashed against the stained glass windows, and the air was moist and heavy and reeked of wet clothing and candle wax.

I’d been here at St. Mark’s for many happy occasions – weddings and christenings – and sad occasions – weddings and funerals – and, of course, for Easter Sunday and midnight services at Christmas as well as regular Sunday service now and then. In fact, if I closed my eyes, I could see Carolyn’s and Edward’s christenings, and I could even picture Susan walking up the aisle in her wedding gown.

This place had many memories, and many ghosts, but maybe the saddest memory was of a boy named John Sutter sitting in a pew with Harriet and Joseph and Emily… thinking that he had normal parents, and that the world was a very good and safe place.

And speaking of the devil, Harriet sidled into the pew and squeezed herself in next to Carolyn. We all said hello, and Harriet whispered to me, “I’d like to ride with you to the cemetery.”

“Of course.” If Harriet drove herself, there would be a few more bodies along the way for the hearse to collect.

The Reverend James Hunnings approached in his appropriate ecclesiastic garb, bowed toward the altar, then walked somberly to center stage. He extended his hands and proclaimed, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.” I hoped he wasn’t speaking about himself.

Ethel, if she could hear, would be pleased with Father Hunnings’ performance as well as that of the organist. The hymns had been chosen by Ethel, and the choir and the congregation were in fine voice.

Elizabeth delivered a beautiful eulogy about her mother, followed by Tom Junior and Betsy. You do learn a few things about the deceased during these eulogies, and Ethel sounded like a nice lady. Maybe she was.

Father Hunnings, too, spoke well of the deceased, saying that she was a lady of great faith and spirit, words that he’d tried out on me last night.

The service continued, including Holy Communion, which meant we could skip Sunday service. I took the opportunity of time and place to say a prayer for my father.

Finally, Father Hunnings invited us to give the sign of peace, and the Sutters kissed; I even kissed Harriet. Then we shook hands with the people around us, and I turned toward the pew behind me and extended my hand to… William Stanhope. When did he sneak in?

Carolyn, Edward, and Susan kissed Charlotte and William, then it was my turn with Charlotte, and there was no way out of it for either of us, unless I faked a heart attack. So in keeping with the wonderful message of peace, I planted a quick one on her wrinkly cheek and mumbled, “Peas be with you.”

The funeral home had provided professional pallbearers, and the Allard family followed the coffin, and then Father Hunnings, then the acolytes picked up the rear, followed by the mourners.

It was still raining, so there were umbrellas being popped open, which added to the usual confusion about who’s riding in whose car to the cemetery and who goes in which limousine. Ethel, for sure, was going in the hearse.

Susan insisted that my mother ride in front with me, so I had the pleasure of listening to Harriet giving me driving advice. This is a joke – right?

I maneuvered my way into the line of cars in the funeral procession with Ethel in the lead, followed by three stretch limousines for the family, and about twenty other cars, with a police escort, and we made our way across town to Locust Valley Cemetery. A corner of this nondenominational cemetery is actually the Stanhope family burial ground, which ensured them maximum privacy and a comfortable separation from the less important stiffs.

I parked as close to the gravesite as possible, and we walked with the crowd through the rain toward the open grave.

The funeral home had delivered the flower arrangements and placed them away from the grave, forming a circle, within which we all assembled, and someone handed out roses. There were about fifty mourners gathered around the coffin, which was sitting on a bier next to the hole that was covered with some sort of Astroturf. I noticed that at the head of Ethel’s grave was the old sign that said “Victory Garden.”

George Allard’s tombstone lay next to Ethel’s final resting place, and Elizabeth went over and put her hand on George’s name. That was very nice.

I looked around and noted the other gravestones, most of which had Stanhope as the last or middle name. One of the perks of marrying a Stanhope is that you get a free plot here, and I was really looking forward to that.

William and Charlotte were standing on the other side of the coffin, facing me, and I looked at them. Surely, standing here among all his deceased forebearers, William must be thinking about his own mortality, and about his immortal soul, and his deeds here on earth, which would determine if he was going to be told to take the Up elevator or the Down elevator. He should be thinking, too, about the only immortality we can be sure of – his children and his grandchildren, and the generations that would come after him. Maybe, I thought, or prayed, today William would have an epiphany, and bless our marriage, and embrace our children.

I looked at him closely to see if the Holy Spirit was moving him. But he just looked hungover. Then he sneezed. Pneumonia? Maybe I’d be back here next week.

And speaking of dead Stanhopes, somewhere, maybe fifty yards from here, was the headstone of Augustus Stanhope, and I recalled Ethel’s visit to her lover’s grave on the occasion of George’s interment here. I’d never told anyone about that, except for Susan, and thinking about it now, I wondered if Ethel had taken any other secrets with her to the grave – and this reminded me of the letter. There had to be something in that letter, or Father Hunnings wouldn’t have mentioned it. But what? Possibly a secret will to trump the will we all had been looking at, or some deed, or some other inter vivos transfer from Augustus that gave Ethel or her heirs a claim on the Stanhope fortune? Or maybe the letter revealed a paternity that no one knew about. Maybe William Stanhope was the illegitimate son of the Italian gardener. Who knows? But if you live long enough, as Ethel had, you know a few things.

An acolyte held an umbrella over Father Hunnings’ head, and when everyone was assembled, Father Hunnings began, “In the midst of life we are in death.”

And fifteen minutes later, he ended, “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Ethel; and we commit her body to its resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

Susan, I, Edward, Carolyn, and Harriet threw our roses on the coffin. “Rest in peace.”

Harriet walked with Edward and Carolyn, and as we moved from the grave, Susan took my hand and said, “Do you remember, at George’s funeral, we promised that we’d come to each other’s funeral, even if we were divorced?”

“I remember that.” Or something like that. “Why do you ask?”

“Because… those three years you were at sea… I kept thinking… what if he’s lost at sea? How can I…?” Then she broke down and started crying.

I put my arm around her, and we walked with the somber, black-clad mourners with our black umbrellas through the rain past the black limousines.

We all gathered in the basement fellowship room of St. Mark’s Church, and I could see that there were more people here than had been at the cemetery. The cemetery no-shows, however, seemed to consist mostly of the elderly and the very young, plus the church ladies who’d set up the punch bowls and the food, so these people got a pass on the burial in the rain.

The punch seemed to be alcohol-free, but I was hoping that someone had spiked at least one punch bowl, and all I had to do was find it.

I’m not a big fan of Episcopal cake and cookies, and my stomach was growling for a liverwurst sandwich on rye with deli mustard. But I settled for some potato salad that had little specks of mystery meat in it.

These post-burial gatherings are sort of awkward – I’m just not sure if we’re supposed to continue the mourning, or yuck it up with the family and friends of the deceased. I asked Susan about this – Emily Post had been a little sarcastic the last few times – and Susan said that we’re just supposed to exchange good memories of the deceased, and prop up the bereaved family for a little while longer. I guess I knew this, but having been gone for ten years, I felt like a foreigner sometimes, and I had been noticing that I’d missed or misunderstood some of the subtle changes that had occurred here in the last decade. Or maybe I’d changed more than the culture had.

Harriet seemed to be more popular than I’d realized, which was surprising, but good. Also good was that her car was here, and I didn’t need to drive her home.

I spotted William and Charlotte standing by themselves, sipping the awful punch. I watched carefully to see if William sneezed or coughed, but he seemed more bored than terminally ill. Damn it. Also, I was annoyed that Susan hadn’t dragged Edward and Carolyn over to keep them company and suck up to them. There weren’t that many opportunities left, and Susan was letting one get by. I looked around for the kids, but I didn’t see them, though I did see the Corbet kids.

Maybe I should give up my matchmaking and also my attempt to get the kids to hang around with their grandparents. Susan was no help in either case, so why should I worry about it? Love? To hell with it. Money? Who cares? Leave it to Fate.

I love to mingle in a crowd of people I don’t know, especially if most of them are elderly; you can really get into some interesting conversations. The punch helps, of course. I did see Tom Corbet and Laurence, so the three of us stood in the outcast corner and chatted.

I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings, and his wife had joined him, so I went over to say hello to her – and him – and I noticed that Mrs. Hunnings had aged in the last ten years. This was a big disappointment; I hate it when my fantasy women get old. Nevertheless, she still had a sparkle in her eye and she was charming. Her name, I recalled now, was Rebecca, and she said to me, “Jim tells me that you’re back, and that you and Susan have reunited.”

Who’s Jim? Oh, James Hunnings. Her husband. I replied, “God works in mysterious ways.”

Hunnings butted in, as I’m sure he does often, and said, “Indeed, He does. And wondrous ways.”

Right. Take, for example, your wife not leaving you. I said, “That was a beautiful church service and a touching eulogy.”

“Thank you, John. It’s not difficult to eulogize Ethel Allard. She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”

Rebecca Hunnings smiled at me, then excused herself, leaving me alone with Jim, who said to me, “I hope you’ve given some thought to what we discussed.”

“I’ve spoken to Susan, and she agrees with me that we would not benefit from premarital counseling.”

“Well, with your permission, John, I’d like to speak to her about that.”

“You don’t need my permission.”

“Fine.” He informed me, “I just spoke to William and Charlotte, and we have an appointment in my office this afternoon to discuss… well, their concerns.”

“Good. But keep in mind that they hate me.”

That took him aback, but he recovered and said, “Their concern is for their daughter’s happiness.”

“Mine, too.”

“I know that, which is why this is so troubling.”

“Right.” I asked him, “Did William seem under the weather?”

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, he looked a bit unwell at graveside, and I was concerned.”

“He looked fine.”

“No cough or anything?”

“Uh… no. Oh, by the way, I did take the liberty of speaking to Elizabeth about that letter, and she informs me that it’s in her possession and she has not yet given it to you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I must be frank with you, John – I’ve advised her to examine the contents herself, then discuss it with me before she delivers it to you.”

“Really? And why did you do that, if I may ask?”

“Well, as I said, Ethel discussed with me – in general terms – the contents of the letter, and Ethel herself was unsure if you should see it.”

“Well, the last I heard from Elizabeth, her mother had instructed her to give it to me after her death.”

“I see… well, there seems to be some confusion then.”

“Not in my mind. But I’ll take it up with Elizabeth.”

He seemed to be struggling with something, then he said, “This letter… may contain what could be construed as gossip… or scandal.” He looked at me and continued, “Not the sort of thing a Christian lady such as Ethel Allard should concern herself with, or perpetuate.”

Why not? I love gossip and scandal. Where’s my letter? I pointed out, “Ethel is dead.”

He explained, “Neither Elizabeth nor I want her mother’s memory to be… let’s say, sullied, in any way. So, of course, Elizabeth wants to see the letter first.”

I wonder who put that idea in her head? Well, if Father Hunnings wasn’t blowing smoke, then the letter wasn’t about money. I like gossip better. Scandal is good, too. It was time to go, so I asked him, “Will I see you – and Mrs. Hunnings – tonight at Elizabeth’s house?”

“Rebecca and I will try to be there.”

“Good.” I moved off and found Susan, but I didn’t tell her what Father Hunnings and I had just discussed. Instead, I asked her, “Were the kids sucking up to their grandparents?”

“John, that’s awful.”

“I meant to say, are Edward and Carolyn interacting in a loving way with Grandma and Grandpa?”

She replied, “They spoke briefly, but Mom and Dad have left.”

“Already? Are they feeling all right?”

“Yes, but… this is not really their crowd.”

“Ah. So, Lord and Lady Stanhope just popped in to say hello to the peasants.”

“Please.” She added, “It was good of them to come.”

“I think they actually came to see Father Hunnings for a moment.” I informed her, “Your parents have an appointment with him this afternoon.”

“Really?” She thought about that, then said, “That’s really annoying.”

“Your parents are only concerned about your happiness.” I announced, “Prince John is ready to leave.”

She ignored that and asked me, “Have you seen Elizabeth?”

“No, but we’ll see her tonight and that would be an appropriate time for me to ask her about the letter.” I added, “I hope she’s invited a better class of funeral mourners.” I asked her, “Did Edward and Carolyn spend any time with Betsy and Tom?”

“I don’t know. Why are you pushing that?”

“I think it would be great if they married people from their hometown. Like we did.”

“No one does that anymore.”

“Too bad. Ready? Let’s collect the kids.”

“They left.”

“They don’t have a car.”

“They had a ride to the train station, and they needed to leave quickly to catch a train, so they asked me to say goodbye to you.” She added, “They’re going to the city to meet friends.”

“Did you tell them to be home in time to go with us to Elizabeth’s house?”

“They’re staying at Carolyn’s apartment tonight.”

“All right… well, they’ve been good troupers. They should spend some time with their friends.”

Susan pointed out, “One less night for them to be in the house.”

I looked at her and nodded.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Susan had turned off her cell phone ringer on the way to St. Mark’s, and she’d left it off during the burial service – phone calls at graveside are not good – and then she and I forgot it was off.

So it wasn’t until we got home at about 2:00 P.M. and went to our office to check e-mails and phone messages that she remembered to look at her cell phone display. She said, “I have four calls from Felix Mancuso… the first at ten forty-seven.” She put the phone on speaker and played the first message. Mancuso said, “All right, to keep you informed regarding Anthony Bellarosa – I arrived at the Papavero Funeral Home early, and there was no one there except John Gotti. There was a big floral display from Anthony Bellarosa and family, and also from Salvatore D’Alessio and family. Anthony’s flower display, for your amusement, was shaped like a Cuban cigar, and D’Alessio’s was a royal flush – in hearts – and there were some others shaped like racehorses and martini glasses.”

I hadn’t seen anything that creative at Walton’s for Ethel. WASPs are boring.

Mr. Mancuso continued, “Stretch limos arrived all morning, but most of the mourners were hiding their faces with umbrellas on their way in and out. And the police and media are definitely not invited inside. All right, they’re carrying the coffin to the hearse and it looks like the cortège is ready to roll, so I’m going to join the procession. Bottom line here, we can’t determine if Bellarosa or D’Alessio are here, but we’ll see at Saint John’s.”

Susan and I looked at each other, and I said, “We need to be more creative with the flowers for the next funeral.”

Susan ignored that and played the next message, which came at 11:36: “Mancuso. Okay, quick update – I’m still in the funeral procession, and we’re now in Ozone Park, where he had his headquarters at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club… which I’m now passing… there are hundreds of people standing in the rain and waving. I’m waving back. FYI, there are four or five news helicopters overhead, so you can see this on television if you want. I’m in the gray car waving. Call me when you get this.”

Susan said, “Next message came at twelve thirty-three.” She played message three: “Mancuso. I am now at Resurrection Mausoleum, at Saint John’s Cemetery. About a hundred people from the limos filed into the chapel, but again they were all holding umbrellas in front of their faces, but I did see Salvatore D’Alessio – he’s easy to spot – and his wife. But no Anthony Bellarosa, which doesn’t mean he’s not here. The press and the police are not invited inside the chapel. All right, next stop is the gravesite. I’ll call you after that.”

Susan said, “Last call from him – came in at one thirty-seven.” She played the message: “Mancuso. Here is the bottom line – to the best of our knowledge, Anthony Bellarosa was not at the burial. During and after the graveside service, the Bureau and the NYPD got a good look at every man’s face, and we conducted some informal interviews with the usual suspects regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts. No one was very cooperative and nobody knows nothing. I did pull D’Alessio aside, and I’ll fill you in on that when we speak. Call me.”

I thought about Anthony not being at Gotti’s funeral, and I hoped that meant he really was at the bottom of the East River.

Susan dialed Felix Mancuso’s cell from the house phone, and put it on speaker.

He answered, “Mancuso.”

“Sutter. Susan is here with me on speaker.”

They exchanged greetings, and Susan said to him, “I had my cell off for the funeral, and forgot to turn it on. Sorry.”

“No problem.” He said to us, “So Anthony did not show up, which is significant.”

“I guess so.” Italians show up at anyone’s funeral.

He explained, “That means that he’s either dead, or he’s in hiding.”

“Dead sounds good.”

He didn’t comment on that directly, but further explained, “If Anthony Bellarosa is not dead, then he thinks he will be if his uncle can find him.” He added, “That is the working theory.”

“Good theory.” I asked Mr. Mancuso, “What did Uncle Sal say to you?”

“He said that he thinks his nephew is dead.”

Susan and I exchanged glances, and I asked Mancuso, “He actually said that?”

“He did. And he told me who probably killed Anthony.”

“Who?”

“John Sutter.”

That took me by surprise, but I’m quick and replied, “I have an alibi.”

Mr. Mancuso allowed himself a small chuckle, then said, “D’Alessio told me to pull you in for questioning.”

I remarked, “I didn’t think Uncle Sal had a sense of humor.”

“Apparently he thinks this is a funny subject.”

I glanced at Susan, who was not smiling. She just doesn’t get sick humor. I asked Mancuso, “What do you think? Is Anthony dead or alive?”

Mancuso replied, “Well, D’Alessio has had extra bodyguards with him for the last week – three or four men, though not today at the funeral, of course – so if D’Alessio has that many men with him tonight and tomorrow and so forth, then we have to assume that Anthony is alive and that he has a contract out on his uncle.”

Susan asked him, “What contract?”

Mr. Mancuso explained, “A… call it a death warrant.”

“Oh.”

“Signed by Anthony Bellarosa.” Mr. Mancuso further explained to her, “It’s not actually in writing.” He added, “And Salvatore D’Alessio most probably has a contract out on Bellarosa’s life.”

Susan had no comment. But certainly she had a flashback to her lover, who not incidentally had the same last name.

Felix Mancuso recapped for us, “So, it appears that Anthony Bellarosa has chosen to go into deep hiding rather than go about his business surrounded by bodyguards, as his uncle is doing.” He added, “I think we’ll know within a week or two who made the right move.”

I inquired, “Why do you think it will be that soon?”

He replied, “Every day that Anthony is not around to run his half of the business is a day that his uncle gets more control and more power.” He informed us, “I did this for… well, a very long time. So I’ve seen this, and I know how they think and how they act.”

I thought about that, then asked him, “If you had to make a bet – and if you were looking at the odds – which one of them would you bet on to be alive next week?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Actually… well, I hate to say this, but we have a… a sort of pool here.”

“Can I get in on it?”

He forced a chuckle and replied, “Sure.”

Susan said, “Please.”

Mr. Mancuso got professional again and said, “The odds are really fifty-fifty. D’Alessio is not overly bright, but most of the underbosses and the old Mafiosi are with him, so that gives him an advantage in regard to getting to Anthony and having the job done professionally. Anthony’s strong points are that he’s young, energetic, and ruthless, and he has a lot of young talent around him. He’s also cautious, as I said, but he’s a hothead, as you said, and he’ll forget about caution for this job, which may be his downfall – or may lead to a surprise win.”

I thought about all that, and my instincts and my intellect said to go with the old guy – Uncle Sal, who was also my sentimental pick. I inquired, “So, you’re giving even odds?”

“That is correct.”

“What’s the maximum bet?”

“Fifty.”

“John.”

That was Susan, and I motioned for her to be quiet. I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Could you front me fifty on Uncle Sal?”

“Done.”

“I’ll give it to you when I see you.” I added, “Let me know if the odds change.”

“I certainly will do that.”

I would have asked him how I’d know if I won, but that was a silly question. I did ask, however, “Why did hundreds of people line the funeral route of a Mafia don?”

He replied, “Probably thousands, actually. And I don’t have a single answer for that. Maybe curiosity… maybe just the herd instinct…” He added, “Some people thought Gotti was a hero, so maybe that’s something we need to think about.”

I glanced at Susan, then I said to Mr. Mancuso, “Well, we went to the funeral of a lady who lived quietly, died peacefully, and was buried without a lot of fuss. And I’m sure she’s with the angels now.”

Mr. Mancuso replied, “I’m sure she is.” He then said, “Well, I have nothing further. Any questions?”

I looked at Susan, who shook her head, and I said, “Not at this time.”

He said, “Have a happy Father’s Day.”

Actually, I would if William was sick with pneumonia. I replied, “You, too.”

I hit the disconnect button and said to Susan, “I feel good that Felix Mancuso is on top of this.”

She nodded.

“And the FBI, and the county police, and Detective Nastasi.”

Again, she nodded, but she knew I was just trying to make things sound better than they were. We were both disappointed that Anthony Bellarosa hadn’t shown his face and hadn’t given the FBI and NYPD a crack at him. Usually, if the police or the FBI could question a suspect or a person of interest, they could, at the very least, instruct him to keep them informed of his whereabouts. And they could follow him. But Anthony had done a disappearing act, which made everyone nervous.

Mr. Mancuso’s odds of fifty-fifty were either too optimistic, or he was trying to make us feel better. The odds were really in favor of Anthony killing Uncle Sal before Uncle Sal killed Anthony. But that wasn’t a bet I wanted to make.

And then, when Anthony took care of Uncle Sal, he’d turn his attention to the Sutters. That was my bet.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

We spent a few lazy hours of a rainy Saturday afternoon in the upstairs family room, reading and listening to music.

I went downstairs at 4:00 P.M. to ask Sophie to bring us coffee and pastry, then I went into the office to check my e-mail.

There was no reply from my law firm to my Friday night resignation letter, but I knew I’d hear from them Monday.

There was, however, a reply to my letter to Samantha. Bottom line, she was not happy. In fact, she was pissed.

She pointed out, quite correctly, that I’d not called, not written, and had generally left her in the dark until I dropped the bombshell. She also said she was hurt, devastated, and deeply wounded. It was a really well-written letter for an e-mail, and she’s very much a lady and didn’t use words like “shithead,” “asshole,” or even “fuck you.” I mean, that was what she was saying, but she said it in a more genteel way.

Well, I felt awful, and I wished I could have delivered my bad news to her in person or at least by phone – she deserved better than an e-mail – but the situation had gotten away from me, and I’d done the best I could, considering her imminent arrival and what was going on here.

I wasn’t going to respond to her letter now, but I would speak to her by phone, or maybe even in London, and if she really wanted an explanation, I’d give her the whole story. Most likely, however, she never wanted to hear from me again. I wondered if she’d know if I got whacked. I guess she would from my firm, who’d be annoyed that I hadn’t come in to take care of my out-processing.

Anyway, I deleted the letter in case the FBI went through my e-mail posthumously. I wouldn’t want Felix Mancuso to think I’d been a cad.

I went back to the family room, and Sophie brought up coffee and pastry.

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

I replied, truthfully, “I took care of that business in London.”

“About time,” she said, and went back to her magazine.

At 6:00 P.M., I turned on the TV and found a local news station that was leading off with the John Gotti funeral.

Susan looked up from her magazine and asked, “Do we have to watch that?”

“Why don’t you get ready for Elizabeth’s open house?”

Susan stood and said, “If you hurry, we can keep our six-game winning streak going.”

So, sex or another funeral? I said, “Five minutes.”

She left, and I turned my attention to the television, which showed an aerial view of the Gotti funeral procession, taken earlier in the day from a hovering helicopter.

The female helicopter reporter was saying, “The procession is slowing down in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, a middle-class Queens neighborhood, with John Gotti’s modest home in such contrast to the man himself, who was far from modest.”

Not a bad observation – a little hokey, but point made.

She continued her spontaneous reporting over the sound of the helicopter blades, “John Gotti was a man who, to many, was larger than life. The Teflon Don, who no charges could stick to.”

To whom no charges could stick. This was not BBC.

She continued, “You can see the hundreds of people who’ve come out on this rainy day – friends and neighbors, maybe out of curiosity, maybe to pay their respects to their neighbor…”

Well, at least one neighbor wasn’t there to pay his respects; he was dead.

She went on, returning to the subject of Mr. Gotti as a bon vivant, and said, “He was also called the Dapper Don because of his Italian, handmade thousand-dollar suits.”

A thousand? Did I get taken on that Brioni at two thousand? No. That’s what they cost. Maybe Gotti got the celebrity gangster discount. I should have mentioned Anthony’s name at Brioni’s.

The lady in the helicopter said, “The procession is picking up speed now, and they will be heading to Ozone Park, where John Gotti had his headquarters – the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, but really the headquarters of his criminal empire.”

Really?

The aerial view pulled away to show the long line of vehicles moving through the gray drizzle – the hearse, the twenty or so flower cars piled with floral arrangements, and the twenty or more black stretch limousines, in one of which was Salvatore D’Alessio, though apparently not Anthony Bellarosa.

I looked for Mr. Mancuso’s gray car among the dozens that were following the black limousines, and I actually saw a gray sedan with all its windows open, and arms waving to the crowd. I guess that’s FBI humor.

I heard Susan call, “John!”

I called back, “This is important.”

“You’re going to miss something more important if you don’t get in here.”

“Coming!”

I was about to turn off the TV, but then the scene switched back to the studio, and the news anchor guy said, “Thank you, Sharon, reporting earlier today from our Eye in the Sky helicopter. We’ll have more footage of the John Gotti funeral after we hear this report on the life of John Gotti from our city news reporter, Jenny Alvarez.”

Who?

And then there she was on the screen. My old… fling. She looked great with TV makeup… maybe a little orange… but still very pretty, with a nice big smile.

Jenny said, “Thank you, Scott. Those were amazing shots of the funeral cortège, taken earlier today, as the body of John Gotti was laid to rest at Saint John’s-”

“John Sutter!”

“Be right there.”

Jenny was saying, “One of the pallbearers today was Mr. Gotti’s lawyer, Carmine Caputo, who we interviewed after the burial.”

Mr. Caputo’s face appeared on the screen, and he took a few questions from a reporter who looked like he was about sixteen years old. Mr. Caputo, old pro that he was, did not answer a single question, but used the opportunity to eulogize his client – family man, father, husband, good neighbor – well, except that one time – good friend – except when he had Paul Castellano whacked – and a generous contributor to many worthwhile causes, including, I hoped, Mr. Caputo’s law firm. I hate it when clients die without paying their bills, as Frank had done to me. But Mr. Caputo seemed sincere in his affection for Mr. Gotti, so he’d been paid.

Jenny came back on the screen, and I thought for sure she was going to make the segue to the last big Mafioso funeral she’d covered – that of don Frank Bellarosa – and mention Mr. Bellarosa’s upper-crust lawyer, John Sutter. This was her opportunity to defend me again and say, “If Carmine Caputo could be at John Gotti’s funeral, why was everyone so fucking bent up that John Sutter went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral? Huh? And John didn’t carry the coffin, for God’s sake.” Then film footage of me would come on the screen, and when the camera returned to Jenny, she’d be wiping her eyes and saying, “John? Are you out there?”

“John!”

“Coming!”

Jenny, however, did not mention any of that, and I was… well, hurt.

I was also sad that she’d gone from network news to this rinky-dink local cable show. Maybe she took to drink after we broke up.

Jenny, who knew her Mafia lore, was saying, “Saint John’s Cemetery is known as the Mafia Valhalla and holds the remains of such underworld luminaries as Lucky Luciano, Carlo Gambino, and Aniello Dellacroce, the Gambino family underboss – and now John Gotti, the boss of bosses…”

I watched her as she looked straight into the camera, as though she were looking at me, and I knew she was thinking about me. I also noticed a wedding ring on her left hand. Oh well.

I turned off the TV and nearly ran into the bedroom.

Susan was at her makeup table and said, “You’re too late.”

I got undressed, fell into bed, and put a pillow under my butt.

She glanced at me and commented, “Well…”

Elizabeth Allard Corbet’s house was a big old rambling colonial located in the hills of Mill Neck, near Oyster Bay.

We parked on the heavily treed street and walked toward the house. The sky was clearing, and it looked as though tomorrow was going to be a good day, at least weather-wise.

A small card on Elizabeth’s door said, Enter, so we did.

It was about 7:30, and the large foyer was already filled with people. As is my custom, I said hello to the first guy I saw and asked, “Where’s the bar?”

He pointed. “Sunroom.”

I took Susan in tow, and we made our way through the living room into a sunroom on the side of the house where two bartenders were helping people deal with their grief.

Drinks in hand – vodka tonics – Susan and I waded into the maelstrom.

I spotted a few people I recognized from the funeral home or the burial service, but mostly the crowd seemed to be made up of couples who were younger than us, probably friends and neighbors of the Corbets – as opposed to friends of the deceased. I didn’t see the Stanhopes and didn’t expect to. Neither did I see Father Hunnings. Maybe they were all still in Father Hunnings’ office discussing me and Susan. These people should get a life.

I didn’t see my mother either. Maybe she was in on the meeting. In fact, maybe they’d asked other people to come and give testimony against me – like Amir Nasim (Mr. Sutter is a bigot), Charlie Frick (He’s a philistine), Judy Remsen (He’s a pervert), Althea Gwynn (He’s a boor), Beryl Carlisle (He’s impotent)… maybe even Samantha (He’s a scoundrel) flew in from London. Possibly, they were now forming a lynch mob. But my mother would tip me off. She loved me, unconditionally.

Susan announced, “There’s no one here whom we know.”

“They’re all plotting against me in Hunnings’ office.”

“I think you need another drink.”

“One drink, then we’re leaving.”

“Fine. But you should speak to Elizabeth if possible.”

We wandered through the living room and into the dining room, where there was a buffet laid out, and I noted a huge liver pâté, oozing fat.

Susan said, “You don’t want that. Have some cut vegetables.”

“Choking hazard.”

We moved into a large family room at the rear of the house, but other than Tom Junior and Betsy, there was no one there that we recognized.

Susan said, “This is a big house for Elizabeth and two kids who don’t live here.”

I thought it best not to mention my guest room, but I did say, “Must be lots of storage space in the basement.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Well… most of that stuff from the gatehouse was brought here.”

She nodded absently, thinking about something else.

Meanwhile, I was thinking that I could have been very comfortable here. I mean, I was happy beyond belief that I was with Susan again, but that was not a done deal – though in her mind it was. But in the days and weeks ahead, she’d have to face some hard realities, and harder choices when Mom and Pop laid it on the line for her.

She would, I was certain, choose me over them and their money, and if the children’s money was also at stake, we’d have a family council, and I would still be the winner over Grandpa and Grandma.

But I wasn’t going to let that happen. And I wouldn’t make a big deal of it; I’d just disappear. Well, first I’d kick William in the nuts. That’s the least I should get out of this.

Susan asked me, “Could you live here?”

“Live… where?”

“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t move from Stanhope Hall and get away from the memories, from Nasim, from… everything there.”

I didn’t reply immediately, then I said, “That is totally your decision.”

“I want you to tell me how you feel.”

Why is it always feel with women? How about, “Tell me what you think”?

“John?”

“I’m not completely in touch with my feelings on that subject. I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Elizabeth wants to sell, so let’s think about it.”

That was a step in the right direction away from Stanhope Hall. I agreed, “Let’s see how we feel.”

She nodded and observed, “There are people on the patio. Let’s go outside.”

So we walked through the family room, and stopped to say hello to Tom Junior and Betsy, and we discovered that their father and Laurence had gone back to the city, but the kids were joining them tomorrow for Sunday brunch in SoHo. That’s what I’d be doing if I moved into the city by myself.

I said, “There’s Elizabeth. We’ll say hello, then you need to excuse yourself, so I can speak to her about that letter if I think it’s appro-priate.”

She nodded, and we walked over to Elizabeth, who was standing with a group of people in the center of the large patio.

We all kissed, and Elizabeth introduced us to her friends, one of whom was a younger guy who I immediately sensed was single, horny, and sniffing around our friend and hostess. His name was Mitch, and he looked a little slick to me – trendy clothes, coiffed hair, buffed nails, and a phony smile. Capped teeth, too. I did not approve of Mitch, and I hoped that Elizabeth didn’t either.

Susan said to Elizabeth, “That was a beautiful funeral service and a moving burial rite.”

Elizabeth replied, “Thank you both so much for all you’ve done.”

And so forth.

Then Susan excused herself, and I hesitated, then said to Elizabeth, “This may not be a good time, but I need about five minutes to discuss something that’s come up.”

She looked at me, and she knew what this was about. She could have put it off, but she said to her guests, “John is the attorney for Mom’s estate. He wants to tell me where she buried the cash.”

Everyone got a chuckle out of that, and Elizabeth and I went into the house and she led me to a small library and closed the door.

I said to her, “This is a very nice house.”

“Too big, too old, too much upkeep.” She added with a smile, “Tom did all the decorating.” She opened a liquor cabinet and said, “Let me freshen your drink.”

“I’m all right.”

“Well, I need one.” She poured gin or vodka from a decanter into her glass.

I asked her, “How are you holding up?”

She stirred her drink with her finger, shrugged, and said, “All right. Tomorrow won’t be so good.”

“No. But time does heal.”

“I know. She had a good life.”

I could have slid right from that to the letter, but I sensed that we needed another minute of small talk, and I said, “I really enjoyed Tom’s company.”

“I do, too. We’re friends. I like Laurence, too, and I’m happy for both of them.”

“Good. Your kids are great. I love them.”

“They’re good kids. It’s been hard for them, but at least all this happened when they were old enough to understand.”

I nodded and said, “Same with my two.”

“Your kids are terrific, John.”

“I wish I’d been around for them more in the last ten years.”

“That wasn’t all your fault. And you have a long time to get to know them again.”

“I hope so.” I smiled and said, “My matchmaking seems to have fizzled.”

She, too, smiled and replied, “You never know.” She added, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Then, on the subject of mating, she asked me, “Did you like Mitch?”

“No.”

She laughed and said, “You’re too subtle, John.”

“You can do much better.”

She didn’t respond to that, and we stood there a moment, neither of us coming up with a new subject for small talk.

So I said, “I spoke to Father Hunnings, and he said he spoke to you about the letter that your mother wrote to me.”

She nodded.

I continued, “He told me that your mother discussed with him – in general terms – the contents of that letter, and that Ethel asked him if she should give it to me.”

“I know that.”

“And Father Hunnings, as you know, wants to see the letter to determine if he thinks I should see it.”

She didn’t reply, and I could see that this was not going to be a slam dunk for me. I said to her, “I have no objection to sharing this letter with you – you are Ethel’s daughter. But I do have an objection to Father Hunnings seeing it before I do. Or seeing it at all.”

She nodded, and I could tell she was wavering.

So we both stood there. As an attorney, I know when to rest my case.

Finally, Elizabeth said, “I have the letter… unopened – it’s addressed to you… but… if you don’t mind, I’d like to think about it… maybe speak to Father Hunnings one more time.”

I reopened my case and said, “I think this is between me and you.”

“But Mom spoke to him… and now I’m in the middle.”

“What was the last thing she said to you about the letter?”

“You know… that I should give it to you after her death. But… what if it is scandalous? Or… who knows what?” She looked at me and asked, “What if it has something to do with Susan?”

I’d already thought about that, as Elizabeth obviously had. Elizabeth and Susan were friends, but somewhere in the back of Elizabeth’s otherwise beautiful mind was the selfish thought that if Susan were gone, then John was free. That’s egotistical, I know. But true. In any case, I didn’t think that Ethel, even if she knew some scandal about Susan, would be writing to me about it. In fact, she’d wanted Susan and me to reconcile. And even if the letter was about Susan, I couldn’t think of many things that would change my mind or my heart regarding how I felt about her. Well, I suppose I could think of a few things.

I said to Elizabeth, “This is something your mother wanted me to know. But I understand your concern about preserving her good reputation and her memory. So, may I suggest that we look at the letter now, together? And if it’s something like that, then you can keep it and destroy it.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that now.”

“All right. When you’re ready.”

She nodded. “Maybe Monday. When this is all behind me. I’ll call you.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and said, “Maybe your mother was just telling me what an idiot I am.”

She smiled in return and said, “She actually liked you.” Elizabeth confessed, “But she never liked me liking you. She liked Tom. And Susan.”

“I like Tom and Susan, too. But Tom likes Laurence now.”

She smiled again and said, “It’s all about timing.”

“It is.” I opened my arms, and she stepped forward and we hugged.

She said, “Let’s speak Monday.”

“Fine.”

We walked together back to the patio, where Susan was speaking to Mitch and the other guests in Elizabeth’s little group.

Mitch said to Elizabeth and me, “Hey, let’s get the shovels and go digging for the money.”

Asshole.

Elizabeth ignored him – I’d given Mitch a thumbs-down, and he was finished – and said to Susan, “Sorry. John had to show me where to sign some papers.”

Susan smiled and said, “Make him earn his crabapple jelly.”

We chatted for a minute, then I said, “Unfortunately, we need to go.”

Susan and I thanked Elizabeth for her hospitality, and told her to call us if she needed anything. We wished everyone a good evening, and I said to Mitch, “Don’t wear those sandals if you go digging.”

Mitch did not reply.

Susan and I walked around the side of the house to avoid the people inside, and she informed me, “You were almost rude to Mitch.”

“I didn’t like him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“Well, I think he and Elizabeth are…”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gave him an unsatisfactory rating.”

She thought about that, then asked, “You said that to Elizabeth?”

“I did.”

She stayed silent awhile, then inquired, “When did you become Elizabeth’s mentor and confidant?”

Whoops. I wasn’t following Susan’s thought process. I replied, “She asked me what I thought of him. So I told her.”

“You should learn not to answer so bluntly. And you should also learn not to meddle in people’s affairs.”

“All right.” I added, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

She didn’t respond to that and we walked in silence. Clearly, Susan still harbored a wee bit of jealousy. Good. To change the subject, I asked her, “Don’t you want to know about the letter?”

“Yes, I do.”

So I explained to her how Elizabeth and I had left it, and I added, “I just don’t see what could be in that letter that has any importance or relevance to me. So we shouldn’t worry about it.” I continued, “Ethel is – was – an old woman with some typical hang-ups of that generation, and a lot of old-fashioned ideas about what is important.”

Susan pointed out, “Father Hunnings was also concerned – or worried.”

“Well, talk about hang-ups. Did I tell you that I swore to him we were sleeping in separate bedrooms?”

“John, you shouldn’t have lied to a priest.”

“I was protecting your honor.”

“Let me do that.” She thought a moment, then said, “I think we need to give Father Hunnings the benefit of the doubt about this letter. He’s trying to do the right thing.”

I suggested, “Let’s see if I get to read the letter that was addressed to me, and let’s see what it says. Then I’ll let you know if I think he’s trying to do the right thing.”

We drove back to Stanhope Hall, and when we got to Grace Lane, Susan called the gatehouse to open up, then called Sophie, who assured us that there were still no onions in the house.

Sophie wasn’t expecting us for dinner, but she quickly threw together a platter of bean sprouts and tofu. It’s hard to choose a wine for that.

Susan and I had a quiet, candlelit dinner on the patio. The sky had cleared and the stars were out, and a nice breeze blew in from the Sound.

Susan said, “This has been one of the best and one of the worst weeks of my life.”

I assured her, “It will only get better from here.”

“I think it will.”

Well, I didn’t. But what else was I going to say?

She said, “I’ll miss Edward and Carolyn being here.”

“And I’ll miss your parents being close by.”

“I won’t.” She switched to a happier subject and asked me, “What would you like for your Father’s Day breakfast?”

“I was thinking of leftover bean sprouts, but maybe I’ll have fried eggs and sausage.” I added, “Buttered toast, home-fried potatoes, coffee, and orange juice. Make that a screwdriver.”

“And would you like that served in bed?”

“Of course.”

“Edward and Carolyn said they were sorry they couldn’t be home for breakfast.”

“No problem.”

“They’ll be here in time for dinner.”

“Good.”

She suggested, “We should have a word with them about their grandparents.”

I didn’t reply.

“John?”

I poured myself another glass of wine and said to her, “I’m not getting involved with that. If you think they need another reminder about the financial facts of life, then you give it to them.” I reminded her, “I already kissed William and Charlotte’s asses. My job is done.”

“All right… I sense that you’re frustrated, and upset-”

“Not at all. I did what I had to do, and I’m done doing it. I will be more than cordial tomorrow at dinner, and I will speak to your father privately tomorrow night, or Monday morning – about you. But only because that’s what he wants. Though I can tell you, nothing is going to change his mind about this marriage, and I will not even try to change his mind. So, you, Susan, need to face some realities, and make some decisions.”

“I’ve already done that.”

“That’s what you think. Look, I came here with nothing, and I am prepared to leave here with nothing.”

“You’re not leaving here without me. Not again.”

“I won’t hold you to that.”

She took my hand and said, “Look at me.”

I looked at her in the candlelight, with the breeze blowing through her hair, and she never looked more beautiful.

She said, slowly and deliberately, “I understand what you’re saying and why you’re saying it. But you can forget it. You’re not getting away so easily this time. Even if you think you’re doing it for me and for our children.”

I looked into her eyes, and I could see they were getting misty. I said, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

She said to me, “I’m tired of them controlling me with their money. So if I lose the money, and I lose them, then I’m free.”

“I understand.” I asked, “And the children?”

“He won’t do that – my mother would not let him do that.”

Wanna bet? I said, “Okay. That’s good. Then it’s settled.” I said to her, “I almost didn’t come in for the funeral.”

She replied, “I knew you were coming in, even if you didn’t.” She pointed to the sky and said, “This was in our stars, John. This is the way it was meant to happen.”

Oddly enough, I felt the same thing, as all lovers do. But the question now was, What did the stars have in store for us next?

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Susan served me breakfast in bed, though I think Sophie cooked it – which was much better than the other way around.

It was a beautiful June day, and sunlight shone on my tray of sizzling fat. I hardly knew where to begin.

Susan, in her nightie, sat crossed-legged next to me and sipped a cup of coffee. I inquired, “Do you want a sausage?”

“No, thank you.”

I dug into the sausages and eggs.

She said, “This is your special day. What would you like to do on Father’s Day?”

Shoot your father. I replied, “It’s such a beautiful day. Let’s go to the beach.”

“I thought we could go shopping.”

“Uh… I thought…”

She had a shopping bag next to her, and she gave it to me. “Here’s your Father’s Day present, and we need to buy you something to go with it.” She informed me, “That’s from me, Carolyn, and Edward. Carolyn and I bought it for you when we were in the city.”

“Great. You shouldn’t have.”

“Open it.”

I reached into the bag for my horrid, two-hundred-dollar tie, which now needed a new suit to match. But it didn’t feel like a tie box. It felt like underwear, or maybe a new Yale T-shirt. But when I pulled it out, it was a white yachting cap, with a black shiny bill, and gold braid on the crown. I stared at it. The last time I wore one of these was when I was on the Race Committee at Seawanhaka – a lifetime ago.

Susan said, “Happy Father’s Day.”

I looked at her, still not quite sure that I was understanding this.

She said, “Try it on.”

So I put it on and it fit. I said, “This is very… thoughtful.” Should I look out the window for the yacht?

Susan explained, “I’ve gone through some yachting magazines, and chosen five boats that we can look at today.”

I really didn’t know what to say, but I said, “This is… really too extravagant.”

“Not at all.”

I turned toward her – without upsetting my breakfast tray – and gave her a big kiss. I said, “Thank you, but-”

“No buts. We are going to sail again.”

I nodded.

“One condition.”

“Never by myself.”

“That’s right.”

“Agreed.”

So we sat there awhile holding hands – my eggs were getting cold – and finally I asked, “Can we afford this?”

“We’re all chipping in. Edward and Carolyn want to do this for you.”

That still didn’t answer the question, but I was very moved by the thought.

Susan produced some magazine pages and gave them to me. I looked at a few classified ads that were circled in pen, and I saw that we were in the right class – forty to fifty-footers – an Alden, two Hinckleys, a C amp;C, and a forty-five-foot Morgan. The prices, I noticed, were a bit steeper than a mainmast – but, as they say, if you have to ask how much a yacht costs, you can’t afford it. Still, I said, “These are a lot of money.”

“Think of all the hours of enjoyment we’ll all get out of it.”

“Right.” I remembered all the good times we’d had as a family sailing up and down the East Coast. Then I thought about my sail around the world, which was something far different. I said, “We have to get the kids to take some time this summer to sail with us.”

“They promised. Two weeks in August.”

“Good.” And then I thought about everything that could and would happen between now and August – the Stanhopes, Susan and me, and Anthony Bellarosa. Well, I’m too pessimistic. Or realistic. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I said, “This was really a great idea. How did you think of this?”

“It was easy. Carolyn, Edward, and I sat down to discuss your Father’s Day gift, and we each wrote a suggestion on a piece of paper, and we all wrote the same thing. Sailboat.”

I guess that was quicker than doing pantomime. I said, “They’re great kids.”

“They were so happy they were able to do this for their father.”

I was getting a little emotional, so I joked, “Where’s my tie?”

“Oh, it didn’t look as good here as it did in the store. I’ll bring it back.”

I wonder why things look different in the store for the ladies. Lighting? Well, it must have been really awful. I said, “I’ll take the boat. Give the tie to your father.”

“Good idea. As soon as the kids get here, we’ll go out and see these boats.” She added, “They want to help.”

Well, it was their money. Actually, it was William’s money, which made this a really great gift. I couldn’t wait to tell Cheap Willie that he’d helped out with my two-hundred-thousand-dollar Father’s Day present – at least with the down payment. We’d need to finance the rest, and I wasn’t sure if everyone’s allowance and the trust fund distributions would be rolling in after today. This was a very appropriate and heartwarming gift to me, but it was also pure folly. Nevertheless, it’s the thought that counts.

Susan said, suggestively, “Finish your breakfast, and I’ll give you another gift.”

The hell with breakfast. Well… maybe one more sausage.

She hopped out of bed and said, “You have to keep your hat on.” She explained, “You’re a sailor who’s washed ashore in a storm, and I’m the lonely wife of a seaman whom I haven’t seen in years. And I’m nursing you back to health, and I just came in to take your breakfast tray.”

“Okay.” Don’t take it too far.

She moved to the side of the bed and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”

“Well-”

“Oh, sir, how is that tray rising by itself?”

I smiled. “Well…”

“Let me take that, sir, before it topples.”

She put the tray on the dresser, then came back to the bed and said, “With your permission, sir, I will massage ointment on your injured private parts.”

I tipped my hat and said, “Permission granted.”

So I didn’t get much breakfast, but I don’t have a lot of trouble choosing between sex and food.

Carolyn and Edward came in on the 9:28 train, and Susan picked them up at the station.

They gave me a kiss and hug for Father’s Day, and a nice card that had a picture of a sailboat on it. I thanked them for the real sailboat, and they were beaming with the pure joy of giving.

Edward said, “Welcome home, Dad.”

Carolyn said, “You are our Father’s Day present.”

Susan got weepy, and so did Sophie, and even Carolyn, usually tough as nails, wiped her eyes. Edward and I, real men, just cleared our throats.

I didn’t share with the children my thoughts that their funds to pay for this could soon dry up. Realistically, we’d have the answer to that before anyone wrote out a check, so I wasn’t too concerned. The worst scenario was that they’d be disappointed that they couldn’t follow through with their gift. And they’d know whom to blame for that. On that subject, I did not remind them, “Be very nice to Grandpa and Grandma.” I said, however, “Let’s sail to Hilton Head in August.”

Susan advised me, “Let’s not mention this to my parents today.”

“Right. We’ll surprise them in August.” Susan did not second that. Bottom line here, it was still the Stanhope money that colored what we did and said. Well, hopefully, that would end soon.

Anyway, we got into the Lexus and went out to look at a few boats.

The first two, an Alden forty-seven-footer and a Hinckley forty-three-footer, were in public marinas, and we inspected them from the dock.

The next one, an old forty-one-foot Hinckley, was docked at a private house on Manhasset Bay, and we called ahead, and the owner showed it to us. The fourth boat, a forty-five-foot Morgan 454, was moored at Seawanhaka, and we had a club launch take us out to it, but we didn’t go aboard. The fifth, a 44 C amp;C, was also at Seawanhaka, but the launch pilot said the family had taken it out for the day. He did tell us it was a beautiful boat.

Back at the club, there was a barbecue being set up on the lawn for Father’s Day, and I suggested to Susan, out of earshot of the children, “Why don’t we take your parents here instead of having dinner at home? Then your father and I can take that Morgan out later and see how it handles.”

She reminded me, “We don’t want to mention this to him.”

“I think he and I can have a very productive man-to-man talk in the middle of the Sound.”

She must have misunderstood me, because she said, “John, threatening to drown my father on Father’s Day is not nice.”

“What are you talking about?” I wondered if he was still a good swimmer.

We all sat on the back porch and had Bloody Marys. Susan asked me, “So, did you see anything you liked?”

I replied, “They were all great boats. We need to make some dates to take them out and see how they handle.” I added, “And I want to see that C amp;C that was out.”

Edward said, “I liked the Morgan. It reminds me of the one we had.”

Carolyn agreed, “That would be big enough for Dad and Mom to take to Europe.”

So the Sutters sat there on the porch, sipping Bloody Marys and watching the sunlight sparkle on the bay, and the sailboats at their moorings, their bows pointed at the incoming tide, talking about which yacht we liked best. It really doesn’t get much better than this, which was probably what the passengers on the Titanic were thinking before they hit the iceberg.

Before we went home to get ready for the Stanhopes and my mother, we stopped at Locust Valley Cemetery.

Susan, Edward, and Carolyn had been here for my father’s burial, but maybe not since then, so I checked at the office for the location of the grave of Joseph Sutter, while Susan bought flowers from a vendor who had set up shop near the gate.

We walked on a winding, tree-lined road through the parklike cemetery. The headstones here were no more than a foot high, and not visible among all the plantings, which created the illusion that this was a nature preserve or a botanical garden.

The Stanhope cemetery off in the distance was sectioned off by a hedge and a wrought-iron fence, and the tombstones and mausoleums in there were more grandiose, of course – unless you had been a servant – and there was no mistaking that you were walking among the dead. Here, I felt, you had been returned to nature. This is where I wanted to be – at least five hundred yards from the closest Stanhope. Maybe I could talk Susan into breaking a family tradition – or maybe we’d all be banished to a public cemetery anyway.

There were a number of people in the cemetery on this sunny Father’s Day, and I could see bouquets of flowers on many of the graves, as well as small American flags stuck into the earth beside the headstones of those who’d been veterans.

Susan said, “We need to come back here next week with a flag for your father’s grave.”

I hoped we weren’t back here next week for eternity. But maybe I should stop at the sales office just in case.

We found the grave of Joseph Whitman Sutter. Like most of the others, it was a small white granite slab, about a foot high, and except for the engraved lettering, it looked more like a low bench than a gravestone.

In addition to his name and dates of birth and death, it also said, Husband and Father, along with the words, In Our Hearts, You Live Forever.

To the right of Joseph’s grave was an empty plot, no doubt reserved for Harriet.

There was already a bouquet of flowers resting on my father’s stone, and I assumed that was from my mother, notwithstanding her aversion to cut flowers – though maybe it was from a secret girlfriend. That would be nice. I had to ask Harriet if she’d been here today.

As I looked at my father’s grave, I had mixed memories of this man. He was gentle – too gentle – a loving husband – bordering on uxorious – and a decent, though somewhat distant father. In that respect, he was a product of his generation and his class, so no blame was attached – though I’d have liked him to have been more affectionate toward Emily. As for me, well, we worked together, father and son, and it wasn’t easy for either of us. I would have left Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, but he’d really wanted me to stay and carry on the family name in this old, established practice. If that was meant to be his immortality, then I’m sure he was disappointed when the other partners forced me out. He’d been in semi-retirement by then, but after I left he returned full-time, and died one night in his office.

Anyway, my brief criminal defense career was behind me – unless I gave Carmine Caputo or Jack Weinstein a call – and more to the point, Joseph Sutter’s whole life was behind him. And basically, it had been a good life, partly because he and my mother had had an oddly good marriage. They never should have had children, but they had sex before birth control pills, and things happen when you’ve had one cocktail too many. That was probably how half my generation was born.

One time, when Joseph was in an unusually reflective and candid mood, he’d said to me, “I should have been killed in France about ten times – so every day is a gift.” Indeed. I felt the same way after three years at sea.

Susan had her arm around me, and Edward and Carolyn stood off to the side, staring quietly at Grandpa’s grave.

I placed the bouquet of flowers beside the other bouquet and said to him, “I’m home, Dad.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

My mother arrived first, and I could see that she and her grandchildren were honestly fond of one another. Too bad it wasn’t Harriet who had the hundred million.

We sat on the patio with a pitcher of sangria, which was as close to a third world drink as I could come up with for Harriet. I said to her, “For every bottle of wine we drink, a rice farmer in Bangladesh gets a Scotch and soda.”

Susan and Harriet are on the same page when it comes to organic food, so we snacked on bowls of bat shit or something, and chatted pleasantly.

I was actually starting to like my mother, which was easy to do if I blotted out everything from my birth until about ten minutes ago. But seriously, she was a person who, if nothing else, cared; she cared about the wrong things, or cared about the right things in the wrong way, but at least she was engaged in life.

On that subject, I wondered what she had spoken to Father Hunnings about. And who actually approached whom? Harriet, like Ethel, seemed to care more about the oppressed people of the world, whom she’d never met, and about animals and trees that never hugged her, than about the people around her, such as her son and daughter. But there seemed to be a new Harriet taking form – one who cared about her grandchildren, and who also spoke to her priest about her estrangement from her son. What was she up to? Well, maybe with Ethel’s death, Harriet had caught a glimpse of her own mortality, and she’d realized that the route to heaven began at home.

Harriet was asking Carolyn and Edward about their jobs, and she seemed genuinely interested, though with Carolyn she had some problems with the criminal justice system. And on the subject of criminals, I wondered if Anthony Bellarosa had come out of hiding to be with his family for Father’s Day. Most probably not, but if he had, I’d know about it because, as per my suggestion to Felix Mancuso, the FBI or the NYPD were staking out the Santa Lucia church cemetery in Brooklyn where Frank Bellarosa had been laid to rest.

Anna would be at the cemetery, and as per Anna, so would Frank’s other two sons, Frankie and Tommy, and maybe Megan and her kids as well. Although Megan never knew her father-in-law, one of the conditions of marrying into an Italian family was the requirement to visit the graves of every family member who’d died in the last century.

According to Mancuso, Mom’s house in Brooklyn and Alhambra Estates were being watched all day. Personally, I didn’t think Anthony would come out of his hole, especially today when he knew the FBI would be watching his and his mother’s house. But Anthony might visit his father’s grave. And if Uncle Sal had the same thought, Anthony might be dead in the cemetery before he got arrested.

Anyway, Harriet and Carolyn had exhausted the subject of a bachelor of arts degree in humanities for serial killers, and Harriet asked me, “Why are there armed guards at the gate?”

I explained, “Mr. Nasim thinks the ayatollahs are after him.” I concluded, “I blame our government for that.”

Harriet knows when I’m being provocative, and she never rises to the bait. More importantly, according to Susan, Harriet didn’t know about Anthony Bellarosa living next door; if she had, she’d insist that we share that disturbing fact with Edward and Carolyn. When we were young, Harriet used to say things to me and to Emily like, “Your father has a bad heart, and he may die at any time, so you should be prepared for that.” I think, perhaps, she’d gotten hold of a very strange book on how to raise children.

In any case, Edward and Carolyn and everyone else just assumed that the armed guards had been hired by Nasim for his stated reasons; no one, so far, had thought there might be a second explanation for the security.

Nevertheless, I changed the subject to Ethel’s wake and burial, which led me into telling Harriet, “We all went to visit Dad’s grave today.”

My mother looked at me, but did not reply. Well, this was still a sore subject with her. I’d missed the funeral, and my reason for that – I was at sea and didn’t know my father had died – was not cutting it. As far as she was concerned, this was just another example of her son never missing a chance to cause his mother hurt and pain.

I asked her, “Were you there today?” Say no. Please say no.

She replied, “I left a bouquet on the headstone. Didn’t you see it?”

“We did. But I know how you feel about cut flowers.” So I thought Dad had a girlfriend. “So I wasn’t sure that was you.”

“Who else would leave flowers on his grave?”

Maybe Lola, the receptionist with the big jugs, or Jackie, the hot office manager. I replied, “I don’t know. I’m just pointing out that you don’t approve of cut flowers.”

“That was all they had for sale.”

“Right. Anyway, it’s a very beautiful spot, and I’m sorry we didn’t coordinate going together.”

“Well, I’m glad you went.”

Meaning, I’m surprised you bothered. Some people spread sunshine and warmth; Harriet spreads guilt. Did I say I was starting to like my mother?

On the subject of cemeteries and funerals, Carolyn commented that she had watched a few minutes of the Gotti funeral on a TV in the bar where she’d met her friends last night. She commented, “I understand the family, friends, and so-called business associates turning out, but those people on the street – waving and cheering, and making the sign of the cross – that was… depressing. And then they interviewed some people who were saying that Gotti was a hero, a man who cared about them, and who gave back to the community – like he was Robin Hood.” She asked, rhetorically, “What is wrong with those people?”

Harriet had an answer. “People feel alienated from the traditional forms of governmental power, and they are looking for heroes who…” And so forth.

Carolyn, a recent convert to law and order, wasn’t buying her grandmother’s explanation of why the downtrodden citizens of Queens, New York, gave John Gotti a hero’s send-off.

Anyway, this subject was uncomfortably close to the subject of Frank Bellarosa’s life, death, and funeral. I was afraid Harriet was going to say something like, “John, you went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral, after Susan killed him. Don’t you think that the common person felt that they had lost a hero?” I’d have to turn that question over to Susan. Whoops. Slap.

I asked, “Did anyone see the Yankee-Mets game yesterday?”

Well, before we could analyze the game, William and Charlotte arrived, punctually at 4:00 P.M., and fired up the party. Charlotte practically ran to Edward and Carolyn and smothered them with kisses. And Crazy William shouted to Carolyn, “You get more beautiful every time I see you, young lady!” Then he boxed playfully with Edward, and he gave me a manly swat on the ass and shouted, “Hey, big guy! Let’s crack open some brewskis!”

Well, not quite. But William did accept everyone’s wishes for a happy Father’s Day with a forced smile. He even mumbled to me, “Happy Father’s Day.”

William and Charlotte passed on the sangria and turned down my offer of martinis, but they each had a glass of white wine, which to them was like drinking tap water. We sat around the table and made small talk, which consisted mostly of Charlotte telling everyone what she and William had been doing for the last few days. I was surprised she remembered, and no one gave a rat’s ass anyway. William was mostly quiet, thinking, I’m sure, about our past and future negotiations.

I was actually glad that Harriet was there, because it forced the Stanhopes to act like normal people.

I watched William closely for any signs that his sneeze had turned to a cough. You need to be careful at that age. But he seemed all right – maybe a little pale. Was that an age spot on his forehead or melanoma?

I thought, too, about William and Charlotte’s meeting yesterday with Father Hunnings. The good pastor, I hoped, had told them to mind their own business, and to be generous with their wedding gift, pay for the reception, increase Susan’s allowance, and take up skydiving.

Or William had successfully recruited Father Hunnings into the anti-John faction, and William had convinced Hunnings to intercede and counsel Susan about marrying a man who might be a gold digger, and was for sure mentally unbalanced and a wiseass. Hunnings and I never cared for each other, of course, and I hadn’t made any points with him the other night, so this would be a labor of love for him – Father Hunnings’ Revenge. Well, what you sow, you reap. Maybe I should learn to be nicer to people who could possibly screw me up. Maybe not.

Susan had instructed Sophie to announce dinner no later than 4:45 – how much of this could we take? – and Sophie appeared on the patio at the appointed time and said, “Dinner is served.”

So we went into the dining room, and Susan seated us – the two dads in the places of honor at opposite heads of the table, so we had to look at each other. Susan sat my mommy to my left, and sat Charlotte to William’s right. We’d agreed to put the kids strategically to the left of Grandpa, and across from Grandma Charlotte. Susan sat to my right, and I announced, “The first course is a Polish dish called Trust Fund Salad.” Of course, I didn’t say that. But I did have a repertoire of money slang that I could work in during dinner to make the kids giggle, such as “green stuff,” “gravy,” “bread,” “dough,” and “liquid assets.” Well, I don’t know about that last one.

Susan proposed a toast to the Greatest Dads in the World, and William somehow thought that included him and said, “Thank you.” Susan also said, “And to Joseph.”

That brought a tear to my mother’s eye. And this is the lady who’d succeeded in crushing any paternal instincts that Joseph Sutter might have had. But as I said, she was becoming a good grandma, and I hoped that this grandmotherly love was reflected in her will. The whales don’t need the money.

I took the opportunity to say, “I’m sorry Peter couldn’t be here.” I inquired of the Stanhopes, “Where is he working now?”

William replied, “He’s in Miami, and he handles most of the family business from there.”

I didn’t want to be the one to point out that there was no family business – only old money that was in the care of professionals – but I wanted some of that money for my wife and children, so I resisted saying, “Peter is a beach bum who couldn’t make change for a dollar bill without consulting a financial planner.” Instead, I said, “Please pass on my regards to him.” And tell him I’ll see him in court.

On the subject of the Stanhope fortune, if William had worked for this money, I would not be so covetous of it; people can do whatever they want with the money they’ve earned. But this was inherited money, acquired solely through genetic succession, and not through toil, brains, or even luck. Therefore, it was my belief that Shithead needed to pass it on to his progeny – even to Peter the Useless – just as it had been passed on to William’s worthless self. This money should not be used as a weapon or as a Pavlovian doggy treat.

Anyway, dinner proceeded well enough, and as I said, with Harriet there, the Stanhopes were not able to be complete assholes. For instance, they never brought up Susan’s deceased husband, who had also been my children’s stepfather. If they had brought up his name in front of my children, I know I’d have snapped and said, “Edward and Carolyn thought he was a boring old fart, just like you two,” and then dinner would be over.

Ditsy Charlotte, however, did say, “We’re very anxious to get home.”

We all felt the same way, but I replied, “I can’t wait to see your place in Hilton Head.”

And they said… nothing. But William looked at me down the length of the table, and smoke shot out of his nostrils.

Susan kept the conversation going whenever it sagged, but I didn’t like it when she said to the children, “Tell your grandparents about…” whatever. I mean, it was a little forced, though to be objective here, Grandma and Grandpa Stanhope weren’t eliciting much from their grandchildren, and I had the distinct impression that they’d put Edward and Carolyn on hold until the question of Mom and Dad was resolved.

Susan had asked me to be cordial and not to sulk. I went her one better. I’m very good at theatrical good cheer (bordering on parody), and I really let it fly. I said to William, for instance, “I’m not going to have a happy Father’s Day until you let me make you and Charlotte a martini.” And at one point I addressed him as “Dad,” which made him twitch. Better yet, my expansive table chatter drove them both deeper into themselves.

Harriet, I think, noticed that the Stanhopes did not like her son. She didn’t either, but I could tell she didn’t like it when it came from them. I was her idiot son, not theirs. That’s my mom.

I was trying to decide if I should begin a chorus of “Oh, My Papa,” but we could do that later in the living room, where there was a piano – Susan and Charlotte both played, and they could do a duet while the rest of us stood with our arms around one another and sang.

Well, dinner was finished by 6:30, which was the way Susan had planned it, and I’m sure no one felt that the time had just flown by.

But we needed the Father’s Day cake, so we retired to the living room and sat around the coffee table. Sophie wheeled in the cart and served coffee, tea, and after-dinner cordials.

Sophie also brought in a big cake that she’d made herself and decorated with the inscription, “Happy Father’s Day.” Unfortunately, it actually read, “Happy Fathers Pay.” We got a laugh out of that, and I said to William, “This is your cake, Dad.”

He didn’t think that was so funny.

Susan produced a gift bag with a designer’s logo on it and gave it to her father. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”

William smiled, happy to get some of his allowance back. He extracted the card, opened it, and read it to himself without sharing the message, or even saying that it was from all of us. What a swine.

William then took the tie box from the bag, and figured out how to open it. He held up one of the most godawful ties I’ve ever seen. It was sort of an iridescent pink, and it changed colors like a chameleon as it swung from his fingers.

He actually seemed to like it, and he said, “Thank you, Susan.”

Susan said, “It’s from all of us, Dad.”

I wanted to say, “I got a yacht,” but to be nice, I said, “I wish I’d gotten that.”

Which caused Harriet to ask, “What did the children get for you, John?”

I already had my answer and replied, “Two plane tickets to Hilton Head,” and I smiled at the Stanhopes, who twitched again. Neurological disorder?

Well, the dysfunctional family festivities were nearing an end, unless I asked Susan and Charlotte to play the piano. Carolyn announced that she’d like to catch the 8:25 train so she could get home and do some work before an early morning trial conference. Harriet offered to drive Carolyn to the station, but Carolyn had been traumatized by her last ride with Grandma, and she said that Edward would take her, and see her off. Edward was then going to stop at a friend’s house, and he was leaving early in the morning for the airport, so he’d say goodbye now to his grandparents.

We all went out to the forecourt, and everyone hugged and kissed and wished one another a safe trip. This is where the Stanhopes and the Sutters are at their best – goodbye.

Harriet said, “Well, we only seem to get together at weddings and funerals.” Then she added, provocatively, “And I hope the next occasion will be John and Susan’s wedding.”

I hoped the next occasion was William’s funeral, but I said, “We’re getting married at Seawanhaka before the summer is over.”

Harriet seemed genuinely happy, and she smiled at William and Charlotte, who looked like they’d smelled a fart, and asked them, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Well, you could hear their denture glue cracking. Good old Harriet – she came through with a zinger at the end. And it wasn’t directed at me for a change.

Anyway, I gave Carolyn a final hug and kiss and said, “I won’t be calling you from London anymore.”

“I love you, Dad.”

William twitched again. Well, if the man had a heart, he’d understand this kind of family love, and he’d take me aside and say, “I bless this marriage, John,” then drop dead.

Harriet drove off without killing anyone, then Edward and Carolyn followed in the Lexus.

I looked at William and decided that the time had come. I said to him, “If you’re not in a hurry, we can have a drink in my office.”

He glanced at his wife, then said to me, “All right.”

We went back inside, and Susan said she and her mother were going to help Sophie with the cleanup “while the men relax,” which was very old-fashioned and very sweet. It was also bullshit; Charlotte didn’t know a dishwasher from a DustBuster. Hopefully, Susan would take this opportunity to work on Mom. As for William and me relaxing over a drink, I thought maybe I should go get the shotgun first.

But I didn’t, so I showed him into my office, and I closed the door.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

I offered William a martini, and he was tempted, but unfortunately declined.

William sat on the couch, and I sat in the armchair.

I had absolutely no intention of opening the discussion, or even engaging in small talk, so I sat there, looking at William as though he’d asked to speak to me.

Finally, he got a little uneasy and asked, “Did you want to discuss something?”

I replied, “I thought you wanted to discuss something.”

“Well… I suppose we need to discuss what we… discussed.”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat and said, “First, let me say, John, that we – Charlotte and I – don’t harbor any personal animosity toward you.”

“You told me you and Charlotte didn’t care for me.”

“Well… that’s not the issue. The issue is Susan.”

“She likes me.”

“She thinks she does.” He reminded me, “We’ve discussed this, and it really doesn’t matter if I like you or you like me. So, let me say that Charlotte and I are convinced that a marriage between you and Susan would lead to unhappiness for both of you, and ultimately another divorce.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “And therefore, to save all of us from future pain and unhappiness, John, I’d like you to reconsider your proposal of marriage.”

“I understand that.” I reminded him, “You also indicated that you thought my intentions were not completely honorable, and that my love for Susan might be confused with my love for her money.”

He cleared his throat again and replied, “I believe I said that might be a subconscious consideration.”

“Well, I thought about that, and I’ve concluded that I love her only for her. And I love my children, and I love us being a family. Did you notice that tonight?”

“I… suppose I did. But Edward and Carolyn are adults, and not living here. So, I’m sure you can maintain your relationship with them without remarrying their mother.”

“We’ve been doing that, William, but it’s not the same.”

He didn’t seem to know where to go next, so he cut to the chase and said, “I am prepared to offer you one million dollars, paid in ten equal annual installments, if you will break off this engagement and return to London – or take up legal residence anywhere out of the country.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds, then I said, “If your only objection to this marriage is any claim I may have on Susan’s money – her allowance and her current assets, and future inheritance – then that could be addressed in a prenuptial agreement.”

He didn’t reply, so I continued by asking him, “How much did I get when Susan and I divorced? I seem to recall getting nothing. So we can copy that agreement and sign it again.” I pointed out, “That would demonstrate to you, I hope, that my intentions are actually honorable.”

William realized he’d been sucked into a trap, and he was thinking hard about a way to get out of it. He really is stupid, but when it comes to money, he fires up his remaining brain cells. Finally, he said to me, “The issue is not only money, John. As I said, the issue is Susan’s happiness. We do not want to see our daughter as distraught as she was… well, the last time.”

That was interesting. I’d never really known what Susan was feeling after I’d left. I’d imagined two things – one, she was sad, but had bounced back and was getting on with her life; or two, she was devastated, miserable, guilt-ridden, and considered her life as over. I’m sure it had been all of that, and since we’d reunited, I had a sense of what those years had been like. And now William, her loving father, did not want to see her hurt like that again. Well, if William wasn’t such a duplicitous, manipulative, conniving dickhead, I could believe him, and I could feel some empathy for him as a father. But I wasn’t going to endow him with any feelings of paternal love, just because he claimed those feelings. Possibly, though, he was also speaking on Charlotte’s behalf, and ditsy as she was, I thought she’d probably been very saddened by her daughter’s unhappiness.

Finally, I responded, “This may come as a shock to you, William, but Susan and I had a wonderful, loving marriage, and it would have continued that way if” – I really didn’t want to get into this, but the time had come – “if she hadn’t had an affair with Frank Bellarosa, and then killed him.”

William drew a deep breath, then looked at me and said, “Charlotte and I have discussed… what happened, and we can only conclude that your marriage was not as wonderful as you thought it was.” He pointed out, “If it had been, then what happened would not have happened.”

I’d thought the same thing myself, obviously, but looking back on our marriage, even in the most critical light, it had been a very good marriage. Susan herself agreed with that. But even in Paradise, shit happens. Maybe ninety percent of the married people I’d known who’d had affairs were basically happy at home and stayed at home. Now and then, unfortunately, a husband or wife became obsessed with a lover and mistook that for love. And that was a recipe for emotional and marital disaster. Not to mention that sometimes people got shot.

But rather than explain all this to William, even if it was a little bit of his business, I said to him, “Susan has told me, and I’m sure told you and Charlotte at some point in the last ten years, that there was nothing fundamentally wrong between us. What happened was an aberration and not indicative of a deeper problem.” I added, “She became… sexually obsessed with this man.” I pointed out, “Assuming she’s learned something from that, it won’t happen again.”

William seemed uncomfortable at the thought of his daughter being sexually obsessed with a man. He might have thought she was still a virgin. He banished the image of Susan and Frank together and said to me, “I think, perhaps, you are both deluding yourselves, and trying to rewrite some history.” He informed me, “You, John, if I may be blunt, have always had a wandering eye.”

Well, fuck you, William. True, I flirt – or did – and yes, I like to look at the ladies, but I’d never once had an affair (only that fling with Jenny Alvarez) during my twenty-year marriage. But that was none of his business, so I said, to concede the point and move on, “We’ve both grown up a lot, and learned not to play with fire.”

I thought, perhaps, this had gone over his pointy head, but he understood, and this apparently gave him another thought about how to break up this engagement. He said, “I’m sure you understand that Susan has had a number of suitors over the years.”

This was an upper-class, older-generational way of telling me that Susan screwed a bunch of guys. I mean, really, William. Are you going to now make your daughter out to be a slut who I wouldn’t want to marry?

Well, yes. He said, “I’m not sure you would accept the fact that Susan has been with a number of men. That would rear its ugly head – it might come up in conversation, or she might get a letter or a phone call from a previous gentleman friend – and that would likely lead to arguments, and eventually… well, more unhappiness. For both of you.”

I was fairly certain that most fathers didn’t advise their prospective son-in-law to reconsider the marriage because their daughter had a sexual history that would fill a small library. But William saw this as a quick and sure way to dampen my ardor for his daughter. Then we could get back to money.

I said to him, “I appreciate your concern and your candor. But you need to understand that Susan and I know that neither of us has been a saint for the last ten years. In fact, William, I did have a woman in every port, and even a few inland. Not to mention on board. But my past and her past are totally irrelevant to our future.” Unless one of those assholes in Hilton Head called her. “So, we don’t need to pursue that.” I did add, “I’m frankly surprised that you would raise the subject of your daughter’s sex life with me.”

That made his face flush, and his eye twitched. He cleared his throat yet again – strep? – and said, “Well, I’m just trying to get you to take off your rose-colored glasses.”

William’s clichés were old when he was a kid. I replied, “I always look before I leap.”

“I hope you do. But, I sense that you are planning to go ahead with this marriage, despite my and Charlotte’s objections.”

I got silly and said, “It is my intention, Mr. Stanhope, to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage, and also to ask you and Mrs. Stanhope for your blessing.”

He may have remembered this from last time around, and sentimental old fool that he was, he was going to get teary-eyed and say, “I am proud and honored to call you my future son-in-law.”

Actually, he snorted.

“Sir?”

“Blessing?” He snorted again, and said, “We do not and never will bless this marriage.”

“Then, I suppose, a generous dowry is out of the question.”

“Dowry? Surely you jest.”

“Well… yeah.”

While we were on the subject of blessings and the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, I said to him, “I am a little annoyed with you, William, for discussing this with Father Hunnings.”

He didn’t seem surprised that I knew about that – it’s usually part of the deal that when you go to a priest with your problem about a fellow parishioner, the priest then goes to that parishioner. That’s the point.

I don’t think I’d want to be a priest – all sorts of people unburden themselves to you, and ask for advice, or guidance, or as with William, they’re trying to recruit God through you, to do some heavy lifting for them.

In any case, William had given some consideration to my statement, and said, “My going to Father Hunnings should not annoy you, John. You should welcome the offer of pastoral counseling.”

I replied, “You don’t want Susan and me to marry – so what type of pastoral counseling are we actually talking about?”

He explained, “The type that would make you understand that what is best for you is not necessarily best for your bride-to-be.”

“I see. Well, I think I’ve already gotten that opinion from you. So why are you involving Father Hunnings in this?”

“I hope I don’t need to explain to you that in our religion, prenuptial counseling is a condition of marriage in the church.”

“Well, there is counseling, and then there is counseling. Why do I feel that you’ve already put the fix in?”

“Are you suggesting that I’ve… influenced Father Hunnings-?”

“I think prejudiced him is a better word. And perhaps offered him an incentive to counsel Susan against this marriage.”

“That is an outrageous statement.”

“Nevertheless, I stand by it.”

“Then I will need to repeat your accusation to Father Hunnings.”

“You will if it’s not true, but you won’t if it is.”

He seemed to get his outrage under control and said, “This may be a moot point if we can come to an understanding about this marriage.” He reminded me, “I’ve made you an offer.”

“Which I reject.”

“All right…” William, of course, was not going to fold and leave. He had a few aces up his sleeve – to use a cliché – and he hadn’t even played one of them yet. Instead, he reshuffled the cards and redealt. He said, “I’m prepared to increase my offer to you. Two hundred thousand dollars now, and then ten annual payments of one hundred thousand.”

Well, front-loading a deal is very good, and usually gets the desired response. Money talks. But I love to negotiate, so I said, “It is my understanding that Susan’s annual allowance exceeds even your down payment. So what is my incentive to go back to London with just a percentage of what I would share with Susan if I stayed here?”

Well, now he had to play one ace and explain to me some facts of life in answer to my question. He leaned forward and made eye contact with me, then said slowly, so I’d understand, “John, if you and Susan marry, I can assure you that her allowance will be terminated.”

No shit? Wow. I asked him, “You would put your daughter in financial distress?”

He smiled – an evil smile – then inquired, “Are you suggesting, John, that a marriage to you is the same as being in financial distress?”

Good one, William. But I saw that coming and replied, “Well, I’d thought after our marriage, I could fulfill an old dream of becoming a professional surfer… but… well…”

Quite possibly he thought I was making fun of his son, so maybe I should have said, “Professional golfer.” Why did I say surfer? Freudian slip? Or did I mean to shove that up his ass?

He looked really annoyed, but did not rise to the bait, as they say, and informed me, “I think you would have to work.”

I had some information for him and said, “I have always worked, except for my sabbatical at sea. And I made quite a good living, William, here and in London. Unfortunately, my professional standing here was compromised as a result of what happened ten years ago. I take full responsibility for my actions, but I do need to remind you that your daughter was complicit in the events that led to my leaving my family firm. I have forgiven her, unconditionally, and forgiven myself while I was at it, but it will take me some time to regain my professional standing here in New York and to achieve an income that will provide your daughter with a lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.” I added, “And let me remind you, William, that it was you and Charlotte who always insisted that Susan not work, and you induced her not to work by giving her an allowance, and I’m sorry I acquiesced to that. And as a result of her being kept by you all her life, she is not presently employable in any financially rewarding job – and you are partly to blame for that, so you need to take some responsibility.”

William apparently didn’t want to be confused or influenced by inconvenient facts, so he replied simply, “I say again, if she marries you, her allowance is terminated.”

“Fine. Susan and I discussed this possibility, and it does not affect our decision to marry.”

This time he smirked, and said, “Susan may want to rethink that.”

Fuck you. I said, “You may want to rethink being so petty, manipulative, and spiteful.”

“I will not be spoken to in that manner.”

“William, every word of that is true.”

He looked like he was about to take his cards and leave, but he had another ace to play, and he said, “Also, if you marry, I will remove Susan as a beneficiary of my and Charlotte’s wills.”

Now we’re talking real money. I mean, both of them dying and leaving Susan close to fifty million were key ingredients to a blissful marriage. Especially him dying. I let him know, “If you do that, I will tie up the estate in litigation for at least ten years.” I added, “Peter may find that inconvenient.”

He was really hot now, and his face reddened again. High blood pressure?

My future father-in-law said to me, “That is the most outrageous thing you have ever said.”

“No it’s not. Come on. Think.”

“You…” He stood, and I waited for him to topple over, but he didn’t, so I, too, stood and said, “You’ve insulted me with your offer to buy me. I am not for sale.” I informed him, “I don’t give a damn about your money, and neither does Susan. And you don’t give a damn about your daughter. This is about me and you, and not her happiness. You know damned well that we are happy to be together again, and our children are happy for us. You, William, are very unhappy that I’m back in your life, and you’d rather lose your daughter than gain a son-in-law who doesn’t put up with your bullshit. So, sir, you’ve made your decision, and Susan and I have made ours.”

He didn’t seem to react much to my harangue – he just stood there and looked off into space. But then he turned to me and said, “We will see what Susan’s decision is.”

“Indeed, we will. But you and your wife will leave this house now and make an appointment to speak to your daughter another time.” I went to the door, opened it, and said, “Good evening.” I added, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stepped quickly out the door, then stopped, turned, and in a quiet voice said, “Think, too, of your children.”

That was his last ace, and he’d played it, so I had to reply, “Have your trust attorney call me on that.”

He went off to find Charlotte, who was definitely not in the kitchen scrubbing pots.

I closed the door, and a few minutes later I heard Susan, Charlotte, and William speaking softly in the foyer. Then the front door opened and closed.

A few seconds later, the office door opened and Susan stepped inside. She said, “Should I even ask how it went?”

I looked at her, and I really wanted to tell her that her father was everything I’d always said he was, and more, but that was not really the issue. I said to her, “Well, some good news and some bad news.”

“What is the good news?”

“The good news is that your father offered me one million two hundred thousand dollars to go back to London.”

“What? He did what?”

“I just told you.”

She stood there, stunned, I think. Then she looked at me and asked, “What did you tell-? Well, I don’t have to ask that.”

“Of course not. I told him no. I want two million. And that’s the bad news. He won’t budge from a million two hundred thousand.”

She realized I was being facetious, though she wasn’t sure if this was so funny.

She sat on the couch and stared into space, then finally said, “That is outrageous. That is… despicable.”

“I thought so, too. I mean, you’re worth a quarter million a year – oh, that’s the other bad news. If you marry me, you’re cut off.”

She looked at me, nodded, and said, “I don’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. You’ve been a bad girl, and your allowance is cut off. Or will be. Also your inheritance.”

Finally, she started to absorb all of this and said to me, “Couldn’t you reason with him?”

“No.” I asked her, “Do you want a drink?”

“No.”

“Well, I do.” I poured myself some brandy, and Susan changed her mind, so I made it two.

We didn’t have anything to toast, so we sipped.

Finally, she said to me, “My mother was… well, telling me why I shouldn’t marry you.”

“Anything good?”

She forced a smile and said, “She thinks you’re not in a position to keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

“Did you tell her I was an animal in bed?”

She smiled for real and replied, “I did tell her we’ve always had a fulfilling sex life.”

“Is she jealous?”

“Maybe.” Susan also revealed, “She hinted that you drink too much.”

We both got a good laugh out of that. I observed, “I only wish I could go one-for-one with either of them.”

I sat next to Susan on the couch, and we held hands and didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, “My father seemed very angry.”

“I was very cordial to him, even after he insulted me with a bribe. I really was, Susan.”

“I believe you.”

“But at the end, I had to threaten him with litigation if he cut you out of their wills.” I added, “The allowance is gone, and even if I had a legal theory to proceed on that, I don’t feel I would be morally justified to pursue it. And I hope you agree.”

“I agree.” She reminded me, “I am now free.”

“Right.” I suggested, “You might want to cut back on your personal trainer.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Sorry.” So now I had to decide if I should mention William’s parting shot – the children. But I’d let him do that; Susan needed to hear this from her father. I said to Susan, “I believe he wants to speak to you soon.”

She nodded. “We will speak tomorrow morning. Here. On their way to the airport.”

“Fine. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Thank you.” She looked at me and asked, “Did he mention the children?”

“I believe he will mention that to you tomorrow.”

She nodded.

Susan did not look happy for someone who’d just gotten her freedom, and to be honest, I couldn’t blame her. Freedom is scary.

So, to wrap this up, I said, “Look, if it comes down to me or-”

“John, shut the fuck up.”

That took me completely by surprise. Where did she learn to swear like that? It sounded funny with her patrician accent. I asked, “Could you clarify that?”

“Sorry.” She laughed. Then she put her head in her hands and tears ran down her cheeks. She said, “Damn it.”

I put my arm around her and squeezed her tight. I said, “We will be fine, Susan.” I reminded her, “We knew where this was headed.”

She wiped her face with her hands and said, “You knew. I didn’t believe it.”

I gave her my handkerchief and suggested, “You have to be honest with yourself. You knew.”

She nodded. “Those… I just try so hard with them. How can they be so… heartless?”

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “It’s not the money. Really, it’s not. I just don’t understand how they can be so… can’t they see how happy we are together?”

I really didn’t want to interfere with this cathartic moment, but I had to say, “That is what they don’t like.” I reminded her, “Your father has never liked me, and, to be honest, the feeling is mutual. But unlike me, he’s more driven by hate than by love. And there is nothing we can do about that.”

She nodded, wiped her eyes with my handkerchief, took a deep breath, and said, “All right. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. And I won’t give in to him. There’s nothing more he can threaten me with… except the children’s money. So, we need to speak to the children.”

“Right.”

She asked me, “Do you think I should speak to Peter?”

“I would advise you not to. But that’s your decision.” I’m going to sue the bastard if I have to.

“All right…” She turned and put her head down on the arm of the sofa, and put her feet in my lap. I took off her shoes, and she wiggled her toes. She asked me, “Did you have a good Father’s Day, aside from blowing a million-dollar deal?”

“I did. I really did. I’m starting to like my mother.”

“Good. She loves you in her own way.”

“She certainly does.” I suggested, “Maybe we should rethink the yacht.”

“I guess we should.”

“How about a rowboat?”

“Can’t afford it.” She stretched, yawned, and said, “This has been an exhausting day. But you know what? I feel like someone has taken a thousand-pound weight off my back.”

“Actually, you’re about a quarter million dollars a year lighter.”

She stayed quiet a moment, then asked, “Were you… surprised when he offered you money?”

“To tell you the whole truth, he offered that to me the first night they were here.”

“He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, why ruin the week?”

“You need to tell me everything in a timely manner.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“How about sex?”

With that opening, I should have told her that her father tried to save me from marrying a loose woman, who happened to be his daughter. But there are rules, spoken and unspoken, and that would really cross the line and serve no purpose other than making Susan think even less of her father than she already did. And yet I despised him so much, I actually thought about telling her. But that would raise other issues that didn’t need to be part of our future.

“John? Hello? Sex?”

“Didn’t we do it this morning?”

“No, you had sex with a seaman’s wife.”

“Right.”

I stood, locked the door, and took off my blazer.

Susan slipped off her panties, hiked up her skirt, and whispered, “Hurry, before my father comes home.”

So, recalling those half-clothed quickies we used to have in Stanhope Hall before we were married, I stripped from the waist down and lay on top of her, and she rested her legs on my shoulders.

One of the joys of sex with Susan Stanhope was knowing that I was also figuratively fucking her father. But this time, it was just Susan and me in the room, and it was great.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Susan and I had fallen asleep on the couch, and I was awakened by the ringing phone. It was dark outside, and the only light in the office was from a floor lamp that had been on when William and I had our talk.

I got up and made my way to the desk. The Caller ID showed Restricted, and the desk clock showed 9:32, though it seemed later.

I picked up the phone and said, “Sutter.”

Mr. Mancuso said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutter.”

I could hear noise in the background, men and women talking, but I had the feeling he wasn’t in his office or at home.

He said, “I have some news for you.”

I thought maybe they’d found Anthony eating spaghetti at Mom’s, and I said, “Good news, I hope.”

“News.”

I glanced back at Susan, who was stirring. I said to Mancuso, “Let me get Susan.” I put the phone on hold and said to her, “It’s Mancuso.”

She sat up, and I put the phone on speaker, then said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’re here.”

He said, “Good evening, Mrs. Sutter.”

She stood beside me and replied, “Good evening.”

He began by saying, “Just to let you know, Anthony Bellarosa did not show himself at his father’s grave, but his wife and kids did, and so did the rest of the family, including Anthony’s brothers and their wives and kids. They all had dinner at Anna’s house.”

Poor Megan. I knew, of course, by the tone of his voice that there was more news.

Mancuso continued, “At about 7:45 this evening, Salvatore D’Alessio was having dinner in a restaurant with his wife, Marie, and his two sons, who had flown in from Florida for Father’s Day.”

Well, I knew where this was going. I glanced at Susan, and she, too, knew what Mr. Mancuso was going to tell us.

He continued, “It is the D’Alessios’ habit, apparently, to dine at this restaurant, Giovanni’s, in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, near their house.” He added, “They always go there on Father’s Day.”

I observed, “That is not a good habit.”

“No,” he agreed. He did add, however, “It’s a nice old family restaurant. In fact, I’m there now.”

I didn’t ask him why he was there because I knew why, and I was fairly certain he wasn’t having dinner with the D’Alessios.

Mr. Mancuso returned to his subject and said, “So, at about 7:45, as the D’Alessios were having dessert, two men entered the crowded restaurant wearing topcoats, and they walked directly to the D’Alessio table. According to several witnesses, both men raised sawed-off double-barreled shotguns from under their coats, and one of them said, ‘Happy Father’s Day, Sally,’ then fired a single shot at point-blank range into Salvatore D’Alessio’s face.”

Susan took a step backwards, as though she’d been hit with the blast, and she slumped onto the couch.

I said, “Hold on.” I put the phone on hold and asked her, “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

I slipped on my shorts and pants, then took the phone off speaker, sat in the chair, and picked up the receiver. I said to Mancuso, “It’s just me now.”

“All right… so that’s the news.”

I took a deep breath, then said, “Well… I guess I owe you some money.”

“I never got around to placing that bet for you, Mr. Sutter.”

“Okay…” I sat there and glanced again at Susan, who didn’t seem to notice or mind that she couldn’t hear Mancuso. I asked him, “Anyone else hurt?”

“No. It was professional.” He suggested, “You can see it on the news.”

I asked, “Can you give me a preview? Or something I won’t see on the news?”

“All right…” Mr. Mancuso gave me his professional opinion of the hit. “So, it is Sunday. Father’s Day. And Salvatore D’Alessio is out to dinner with his family. And D’Alessio is very much old-school, and he thinks there are still some rules that won’t be broken. But he’s not stupid – well, actually, he is, but anyway, assuming it was D’Alessio who tried to have Frank Bellarosa killed at Giulio’s in the presence of Frank’s wife and two upstanding citizens, then D’Alessio understands that he himself has broken the rules. And he knows that Anthony does not play by many rules anyway. So, D’Alessio does have one bodyguard with him outside of Giovanni’s, and D’Alessio is wearing a Kevlar vest under his Big and Tall Man suit, and he’s also carrying a.38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson, and he’s got his family with him so he’s not expecting trouble, but he’s prepared for it.”

I commented, “Well, he should have expected it and been better prepared.”

“Correct. The bodyguard, who Marie D’Alessio described to us as their driver – though they walked to the restaurant – took a longer walk, and seems to have disappeared. As for the Kevlar vest, apparently the two shooters knew or anticipated this, so the first blast was aimed at D’Alessio’s face.” He reminisced, “Frank Bellarosa got very lucky that night, but Mr. D’Alessio’s assailants were not going to repeat the mistake of Mr. Bellarosa’s assailants.”

“No. That would be stupid,” I agreed.

Mr. Mancuso continued, “Well, that single blast to D’Alessio’s face knocked him onto the floor, whereupon one more shot was fired into his head, though he was undoubtedly already fatally wounded, according to what the medical examiner is telling me.” He added, “That second shot was… well, a personal message.” He explained, “There is no undertaker who could rebuild that head and face for an open casket.”

Too much information.

Mr. Mancuso continued, “As these two shots were fired, the second assailant pointed a shotgun at Marie D’Alessio’s head and shouted, ‘Nobody move or she dies,’ so the two sons sat there, frozen, according to witnesses, but Marie was screaming. Then the two men left and got into a waiting car.” He concluded, “From the time the two men walked in to the time they walked out was about fifteen seconds.” He added, “Marie, when she looked at her husband, fainted. One of the sons threw up, and the other son became hysterical.” He said, as if to himself, “Happy Father’s Day.”

I nodded. Well, that certainly put my stressful day with Harriet and the Stanhopes into perspective.

I tried to picture this scene of a restaurant on Father’s Day, filled with families, and two men coming through the door, and before anyone even knows what’s happening, one of them blows Salvatore D’Alessio’s head off, after wishing him a happy Father’s Day. What was the D’Alessio family doing in that few seconds before Sal’s head and their world exploded? Talking? Laughing? Passing the pastry? Did Salvatore D’Alessio know, in that second before the blast, that it was over for him?

I remembered how fast it had happened in front of Giulio’s – actually, I didn’t realize what was happening until it was almost over. With no point of reference in my life, my brain did not comprehend what my eyes were seeing. In fact, it didn’t even register when Vinnie’s face disappeared in a cloud of blood, brains-

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Yes…”

“I said, you may not want Mrs. Sutter to see this on TV.”

I glanced at Susan, who was curled up on the couch, staring off into space. I replied, “Right.”

“And perhaps you should not have any of the tabloids lying around tomorrow.”

“Right… well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not Anthony Bellarosa is alive.”

“Correct. I think we should assume that he ordered the hit.” He pointed out, “It seems like the kind of message he would want to send to his uncle’s colleagues. Meaning, this is what happened to my father in front of my mother.”

“Right… well, I wouldn’t have given Anthony that much credit for showmanship, or symbolic acts, but maybe he does have a little of his father in him.” So maybe he could appreciate my act of slashing his painting; his father would have.

Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “I, too, was surprised at how the hit went down. I had expected something… quieter. A disappearance, so as not to draw the full attention of the law, or too much public attention. Or, if it was going to be violent, then I didn’t think Anthony would make it so obvious that he was behind it.” He added, “He might as well have had the killer say, ‘Happy Father’s Day, Uncle Sal.’” He speculated, “This hit may cause him some problems. And that brings us to another subject.” I didn’t respond, so he went on, “It is possible, as we’ve discussed, that Anthony will now turn his attention to Mrs. Sutter, and possibly to you.”

I glanced again at Susan, who was now looking at me. She needed to hear this, so I hit the speaker button, replaced the receiver, and said to Mancuso, “Susan is back.”

He said to us, “Based on the usual modus operandi, I’m fairly certain that Anthony Bellarosa is, and has been, out of town for this last week, and he can document this when we ask him where he was on the night of his uncle’s murder. In any case, wherever he is, my guess is that he will stay put for another week or so, or at least until he’s certain that he’s coming home as the undisputed boss.” He concluded, “Probably he’ll wait until after his uncle’s funeral, though he may actually show up for that.”

I pointed out, “Well, he should if he was the cause of the funeral.”

He allowed himself a small chuckle, but Susan didn’t smile.

He went back to the more immediate subject and informed us, “Anthony’s absence, however, does not preclude him from taking care of business here, as Mr. D’Alessio’s murder obviously demonstrates. In fact, if there is any more such business, it may be done while Anthony Bellarosa is still out of town.”

Susan thought about that, then asked, “So what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest taking extra precautions, including hiring a personal bodyguard.”

I pointed out, “That didn’t help Uncle Sal.”

“No, it didn’t. But hopefully your bodyguard will not be working for the other team as D’Alessio’s was. Also, I’d advise you both to stay within your security zone at Stanhope Hall as much as possible. Meanwhile, I’m asking the county police to see if they can assign you a twenty-four-hour protection detail. Also, I’ve asked if the Bureau can assign one or two agents to you, but quite frankly, we’re shorthanded since 9/11.”

Susan looked at me, then asked Mancuso, “How long are we supposed to live like this?”

He replied, “I wish I could tell you.” He tried out some good news and said, “Bellarosa will surface soon, or we will find him. And when that happens, the NYPD will take him in for questioning regarding the murder of Salvatore D’Alessio, and the FBI will assist if requested. The county police will also speak to him about the threats he’s made against both of you. With any luck, as I’ve said, we can make an arrest. At the least, we can make sure he’s on notice and under constant surveillance.” He reminded us, “The problem now is that he’s missing. And missing people, if they’re not dead, are more dangerous than people who are present and accounted for.”

Susan had believed that it was good that Anthony Bellarosa was missing, but now she understood the problem with that. She asked, “Why can’t you find him?”

Mr. Mancuso, who’d probably answered this question many times, replied, “It’s a big country, and a big world.” He added, “He has the resources to remain missing indefinitely.” He reminded us, “He’s not a fugitive from the law, so we’re assuming that he’ll just appear when he thinks it’s best for him to do so.”

What Felix Mancuso said sounded logical, of course, and certainly if I were Anthony Bellarosa, I’d be more worried about my paesanos and the law than thinking about killing any more people – especially people who, for all he knew, were being protected by the police and the FBI. And yet… I knew, deep inside, that this had more to do with revenge than business, and that the revenge murder of Salvatore D’Alessio was just the first of two. Maybe three.

I had a thought, and I said to Mancuso, “I have business in London…” I glanced at Susan, who was nodding – “so, I’m thinking that this might be a good time for me and Mrs. Sutter to take a week or so in London, and then maybe a week or two on the Continent.” I added, “In other words, we, too, should go missing.”

He replied without hesitation, “That would be a very good idea at this time – until the situation here becomes more clear.” He added, “If you stay in touch with us, we can keep you up to date on developments.”

“We’ll certainly be interested in news from home. And please don’t hesitate to call us the moment Sally Da-da’s friends whack Anthony.”

Mr. Mancuso never responded well to my murderous remarks regarding Anthony Bellarosa – he was a professional – but he did say, “We’re hoping to locate him first.”

“I hope Uncle Sal’s friends locate him first.”

He ignored that and asked me, “When do you plan on leaving?”

I looked at Susan, and she said, “Tuesday is fine with me.”

Mancuso agreed, “That would be good.” He reminded us, “Keep the particulars of your itinerary to yourselves.”

“We will.”

“And enjoy yourselves. You need a break.”

Mr. Mancuso seemed happy that we were getting out of his bailiwick. Again, he liked us, and he would be personally saddened if we got whacked. And professionally, of course, he would be more than saddened; he would be in the same embarrassing situation he’d been in when Susan whacked his star witness. He certainly didn’t need that aggravation again.

He assured us, “I’m confident that we will catch some breaks while you’re gone, and that Anthony Bellarosa will be either in jail, under tight surveillance, killed by his own people, or frightened into permanent retirement and relocated to Florida or Vegas, where many of his colleagues wind up when they need to give up the business.”

I wasn’t so sure about Anthony retiring and moving away, but I did agree with Felix Mancuso that Anthony’s career was at a crossroads. Not my problem, as long as none of those roads led back to Grace Lane.

I thought, too, of Anthony in hiding, or in exile, and I wondered if he had normal human feelings of missing his family, and not knowing when or if he’d see them again. On the other hand, this was the life he’d chosen. And then, of course, I thought about my own exile. That was not the life I’d chosen – well, maybe it was – but it wasn’t my first choice.

Anyway, Anthony Bellarosa didn’t even know where London was, and he thought Paris was the name of a Vegas hotel. So this was a good idea, and we’d have fun while Anthony was trying to figure out if he was the boss, or if he was in trouble.

I said to Mr. Mancuso, “We’ll call you Tuesday from the airport.”

“Please do.”

I asked him, “Other than being called to the scene of a murder, did you have a good Father’s Day?”

“I did, thank you. And how about you?”

“I had a wonderful day with my children, and my fiancée.” I added, “My mother and future in-laws were here, too.” I informed him, “Everyone will be out of here by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good.” He asked us, “Are you being… cautious?”

“We are,” I assured him. “However, Susan and I did go to Giulio’s for coffee and pastry on Thursday.”

“Did you? Well… that was probably a good thing.”

“It was, actually.”

He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, or really to us, “I’ve often wondered… what would have been different in all our lives if you hadn’t stopped him from bleeding to death.”

“Well… you can be sure I’ve wondered about that myself a few times.” I glanced at Susan, who wasn’t looking at me, and said, “But I would never have let him bleed to death.”

“I know that. And neither would I. But I mean, if you couldn’t have saved his life, and he’d died then and there… well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“We would not.” And Susan wouldn’t have killed Frank on Felix Mancuso’s watch, and I wouldn’t have divorced her and been in self-exile for ten years, and Anthony would not now be a threat to our lives. But who knows if something worse might have happened in these last ten years? Like me running off with Beryl Carlisle. I said to Felix Mancuso, but also for Susan, “Well, if we believe in a divine plan, maybe this is going to have a better ending than if Frank Bellarosa had lost one more pint of blood on the floor in Giulio’s restaurant.”

He stayed quiet a moment, then said to me, and to Susan, “I’ve thought the same thing. I really believe that… well, that there is a purpose to all this, and that part of that purpose is to test us, and to impart some wisdom to us, and to show us what is important, and to make us better people.”

Susan said, “I believe that. And I believe that we have a guardian angel who will watch over us.”

Well, then, I thought, why bother to go to London? But to be on the team, I said, “Me, too.”

Mr. Mancuso said, “Someone here needs to speak to me. Have a good trip, and don’t hesitate to call me anytime.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “and have a good evening.”

“Well…”

“Right. Then have a good day tomorrow.”

“You, too.”

Susan said, “And thank you.”

I hung up, and we looked at each other.

Finally, Susan said, “I, too, wonder how our lives would have been if I hadn’t-”

“Stop. We will never – and I mean never – discuss that again.”

Susan nodded. “All right. But maybe there really is a purpose to what happened.”

“Maybe.” And I was sure we didn’t have long to find out what it was.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

I suggested to Susan that we go up to the family room and watch a little of TheGodfather, Part IV: Anthony Whacks Uncle Sal.

She didn’t think that was either funny or something she wanted to do.

Susan picked up the phone and dialed.

I asked, “Who are you calling?”

“Edward.”

“Why? Oh, okay.” A mother’s instinct to protect her children is stronger than a man’s instinct to watch television.

Edward answered his cell phone for a change, and Susan said to him, “Sweetheart, I’d like you to come home now.”

He said something, and she replied, “You have an early morning flight, darling, and your father and I would like to spend a little time with you. Yes, thank you.”

She hung up and said to me, “Fifteen minutes.”

I nodded. Well, if left to his own devices, Edward would roll in at 3:00 A.M., and we’d be up all night with the shotgun waiting for him. I said to Susan, “At least he’ll be out of here tomorrow, and we’ll be in London Tuesday.”

She asked me, “John, do you think there is any danger to the children? I won’t go to London if-”

“They’re in no danger.” I thought about Anthony’s nice, clean hit at Giovanni’s Ristorante, and I also recalled what Anthony himself said to me on his front lawn, and I assured her, “Women and children get a pass… well, children anyway.” I further noted, “Carolyn is a district attorney, and that makes her virtually untouchable.”

Susan nodded, “All right… then I’m looking forward to London.”

“And then Paris.”

“Good. I haven’t been out of the country since… the time we went to Rome.”

Cheap boyfriends. Or provincial bumpkins. Meanwhile, I’ve been out of the country ten years, and I would have liked to stay around here awhile – but back to London.

She asked, “Am I going to enjoy London with you?”

“I hope so. I want to show you the Imperial War Museum.”

“I can’t wait.” She asked me, “Will there be ladies calling and knocking on your door in London?”

“Ladies? No. Of course not. But maybe we should stay in a hotel.”

She reminded me, “We can’t afford it.”

Another new reality.

So we sat in the office and talked a little about what Mancuso had said, and about how we really saw this situation. Susan was optimistic, and I, too, thought that maybe Anthony Bellarosa had more problems with his paesanos than we had with Anthony. But I wasn’t betting my life, or hers, on that.

We heard Edward pull up, and Susan went to the door and opened it before he unlocked it.

The three of us went up to the family room, and Sophie brought us the leftover cake, then wished us good night.

So we chatted about the day, and about sailboats, and about Susan and me visiting him in Los Angeles, and maybe bringing Grandma Harriet along. Hopefully, she’d like L.A. and stay there. We also told him that we were going to London for a few days, and then someplace else. Edward didn’t need to know where until we got there, and maybe not even then. He also didn’t need to know right now about the Mafia hit in Brooklyn. If he heard about this when he was in L.A., he’d probably put two and two together and realize why we were going to Europe on short notice. Or Carolyn would do the addition for him.

Apropos of nothing that we were discussing, Edward asked, “How did it go with Grandma and Grandpa after we left?”

I let Susan reply, and she said truthfully, “Not too well. But we’ll speak to them again tomorrow.”

He asked, “Why don’t they want you to get married?”

My turn, so I said, “They don’t like me.”

He pointed out, “You’re not marrying them.”

“Good point,” I agreed, “but they see this in a larger context.”

Edward cut through the bullshit, and said, “It’s all about their money.”

“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “it is about their money. But not anymore.”

Susan said to her son, “We – all of us – may experience some financial loss as a result of this marriage.”

“I know that.”

I said to him, “Your mother and I don’t care about us, but we do care about you and Carolyn.”

He informed us, “I spoke to Carolyn about it. We don’t care either.”

Susan and I looked at each other, and she said to Edward, “Let’s see what they say tomorrow.” She reminded him, “You have an early flight.”

He stood and said, “See you in the morning.” Then he asked, “How did they get like that?”

Well, assholes are born, not made.

Susan replied, “I don’t know, but I hope it’s not genetic.”

We all got a laugh out of that, and Edward said good night.

Susan said to me, “I really don’t like discussing this with the children.”

“They’re not children.”

“They are our children, John. And I don’t like that my parents are making them into pawns.”

That was the maternal instinct again. She was worried about what would become of Edward and Carolyn if they were thrown out into the cold cruel world and told to fend for themselves, like the other ninety-nine percent of humanity.

I didn’t share Susan’s concerns – they’d be fine, and they knew they’d be fine, and I believed we raised them to take care of themselves – but I did understand her thinking, which was, “Why should they live without money if millions are available to them?”

In effect, there was a choice here that most people don’t have – millions, or monthly paychecks?

Well, I’d pick the millions – especially if I got the money because William Stanhope died – but I damn sure wouldn’t kiss anyone’s living ass for the money. However, when it’s about your children, you do smooch a little butt.

Bottom line here was that I was standing between three of the Stanhopes and the Stanhope millions.

But, yes, we’d see what happened tomorrow. I knew what William was going to say to Susan, but I wasn’t absolutely sure what Susan was going to say to William – or what she was going to say to me afterwards.

Susan said, “I’m ready for bed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not going to watch the news, are you?”

“I am.”

“Why do you want to see that, John?”

“Everyone enjoys seeing the coverage of a Mafia hit.” I actually hadn’t seen a real mob hit on TV since Sally Tries to Whack Frank, in which I had a supporting role.

Susan announced, “I’m going to bed.”

“Good night.”

She gave me a quick kiss and left.

It was 11:00 P.M., so I turned on the TV, and found the local cable channel where I’d seen Jenny Alvarez.

And sure enough, there she was, saying, “Our top story tonight is the brazen gangland murder of Salvatore D’Alessio” – a photograph of a Neanderthal came on the screen – “a reputed capo in one of New York’s organized crime families-”

The caveman’s face was replaced by the lighted exterior of Giovanni’s Ristorante, which was not a bad-looking place. Mancuso seemed to like it, so maybe Susan and I should take Carolyn there. The owner was no doubt upset that his patrons had to witness a man’s head being blown off at dinner, and upset, too, that everyone had left before he could present them with a bill. But he must know that he would make this up in the weeks ahead. New Yorkers love to go to a restaurant where a mob hit has gone down. Look at Giulio’s, for instance, or Sparks, where Paul Castellano had been whacked by Gotti. Still going strong. Free publicity is better than paid advertising, not to mention the restaurant achieving mythic status, and getting an extra bullet or two in the Italian Restaurant Guide.

Well, I’m being silly, so I turned my attention back to the television. There was a lot of police activity out front, and Jenny’s voice was saying, “…here at this neighborhood Italian restaurant in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Salvatore D’Alessio was once the underboss to the infamous Frank Bellarosa, who was murdered ten years ago at his palatial Long Island mansion by a woman who was reputed to be his mistress.”

Reputed? Why didn’t Jenny say Susan’s name and show a picture of her? Well, maybe they were afraid of a lawsuit. Right. Susan was Frank Bellarosa’s killer, but only his reputed mistress. I might even represent Susan if Jenny mentioned her by name as Frank’s mistress or girlfriend. That would be interesting – Sutter v. Cable News 8, Jenny Alvarez, et al. John Sutter for the plaintiff. Is it true, Mr. Sutter, that you were screwing Ms. Alvarez, and she dumped you? No, sir, we shook hands and parted as friends.

Oh what tangled webs we weave, when we stick it in and then we leave.

Anyway, Jenny was saying, “Bellarosa himself had been the target of an attempted mob hit, ten years ago, and it is believed that tonight’s victim, Salvatore D’Alessio, had been behind that botched attempt on Bellarosa’s life. And now, Salvatore D’Alessio – known in the underworld as Sally Da-da – has been murdered, and sources close to the investigation are speculating that the man behind this mob hit is Frank Bellarosa’s son, Tony-”

“Anthony! Don’t say Tony.”

There didn’t seem to be a photograph of Anthony available, and Jenny went on a bit as some old footage of Frank Bellarosa came on the screen – Frank on the courthouse steps on the day I’d gotten him sprung on bail – and I actually caught a glimpse of myself. Bad tie.

And at that moment, unfortunately, Susan walked into the family room, looked at Frank Bellarosa on the TV screen, froze, then turned and left without a word.

Well, it was a little jarring to see Frank on television, looking good, smoking a cigar, and joking with the press. He hadn’t looked as lively the last time I saw him, in his coffin.

I should have shut off the TV and gone to bed, but this was important – not to mention entertaining.

Jenny was now saying, “So, if these rumors are true, then it appears that, after ten years, some chickens have come home to roost among the organized crime families of New York.”

Also, don’t forget – what you sow, you reap.

She continued, “According to reliable sources in law enforcement, Tony Bellarosa has been missing from his home, his place of business, and his usual haunts for about a week, and he did not attend the Gotti funeral yesterday.”

Then she went on about the apparent power struggle that was developing as a result of the vacuum created by Mr. Gotti’s death, and so forth, which brought her back to Anthony and Uncle Sal, then to Anthony’s father, Frank, and then… there I was again, standing next to Frank on the steps of the courthouse. Jenny continued her off-screen reporting, and there was no soundtrack for the film, but I was answering a question that had been asked to me by none other than a younger Jenny Alvarez. I hadn’t aged a day. At that point, Jenny and I were not even friends – in fact, she’d been a ballbuster on the courthouse steps, and I’d taken an immediate dislike to her, and her to me. And then… well, hate turned to lust, as it often does.

Jenny was back on the screen, and this was another opportunity for her to mention me by name as the handsome and brilliant attorney for the dead don, whom we’d just seen on the screen. But she wasn’t giving me an on-air mention – just that few seconds of old news footage. Surely she remembered that night at the Plaza. Instead, she reported, “Another interesting angle to this story is that Tony Bellarosa is the nephew of the victim, Salvatore D’Alessio. Bellarosa’s mother and D’Alessio’s wife – now his widow – are sisters. So, if these rumors about Tony Bellarosa’s involvement in this gangland slaying are true, then this gives us a glimpse into the ruthless-” and so forth.

Well, I don’t know about ruthless. To be honest, the only difference between me and Anthony in regard to whacking an annoying relative was that Anthony knew who to call to have it done while he was out of town. I wish I knew who to call when I was in London – 1-800-MOBCLIP? Just kidding.

Jenny finished her reporting and her commentary, then said to the anchor, “Back to you, Chuck.”

A young anchorman came on the screen, and in what was supposed to be a spontaneous question to his reporter, he asked, “Jenny, what are your sources saying about the motive for this killing?”

Jenny replied, as scripted, “Sources tell me that if Tony Bellarosa was behind this hit, then the obvious motive is revenge for what happened ten years ago when his father, mother, and another couple-”

And she still didn’t mention me by name. Was she protecting me, or torturing me?

Chuck commented on ten years being a long time to wait for revenge, and Jenny explained to him and her viewers about patience in the world of La Cosa Nostra, long memories, and vendetta.

Chuck inquired, “So, do you think this killing will lead to more killings?”

Jenny replied, “It’s quite possible.”

I thought so, too.

Well, it seemed to me that Anthony – formerly Tony – had gotten himself in a pickle – or, worse, a jar of hot pepperoni. I mean, did that idiot – that mamaluca – think that no one was going to connect him to the murder of his uncle Sal? Well, obviously, that’s what he thought he wanted, as his message to the mob that he’d carried out a family vendetta – but I’m sure he hadn’t wanted to fire up the media and the forces of law and order. Unlike his father, Anthony did not think ahead. Anna said it best. “You don’t think, Tony. Your father knew how to think.” Stonato. Moms know.

And speaking of Anna, how was Anthony going to explain to Mom about having Uncle Sal clipped? Well, for one thing, Anna wouldn’t believe the lies that the police and the news media were making up about her son. She hadn’t even believed that her husband, the martyred St. Frank, had been involved with organized crime. And the same denial applied to her brother-in-law, Sal, and so forth.

Of course, Anna knew all this was true, but she could never admit any of this to herself, or she’d lose her jolly disposition, and her sanity. Still, Salvatore D’Alessio’s funeral was going to be a tense family affair, especially if Anthony showed up, and Marie didn’t play the game that the boys had invented long ago.

Jenny was now talking about Anthony Bellarosa, and it seemed to me that she was winging it. In fact, she said, “Very little is known about Frank Bellarosa’s son, and he seems to have kept a low profile since his father’s death. But now, with his uncle’s death, and his alleged, or rumored, involvement-”

I turned off the television and ate Susan’s leftover cake.

Well, I could give Jenny a little more information about Tony, beginning with his name change.

Anyway, I thought, it was looking better for the Sutters. Stupid Anthony had unwittingly – half-wittedly – unleashed a media storm; the Father’s Day Rubout – and that was good for Susan and me. Also the TV coverage was nothing compared to tomorrow morning’s blood-splattered tabloid photos. Hopefully, before the police arrived at Giovanni’s, someone had taken a few pictures of Salvatore D’Alessio lying on the floor with his head in shreds, and those pictures would be worth a lot of money to some lucky people who had taken their cameras to dinner for Father’s Day photos. And sometimes, the NYPD themselves leaked some gory photographs to the press to show the public that La Cosa Nostra was not really an Italian fraternal organization. That would be a good public relations counterpoint to John Gotti as a man of the people. I could imagine some photographs of Marie splattered with her husband’s blood, brains, and skull. I knew how that felt. If nothing else, there’d be some color photos in the tabloids of the post-whack scene – the table, blood on the floor, the vomit. No, no vomit. Blood was okay, but never vomit. Children could see it.

I finished Susan’s cake, then went downstairs and rechecked the doors, windows, and exterior lighting, after which I went upstairs to the bedroom.

Susan was still awake, reading.

I said, “You should get some sleep.”

She didn’t respond. Apparently, she was upset.

I said to her, “Look, there is going to be a lot of TV coverage of this, but I promise you, I won’t look at it again, and we won’t buy any American newspapers in London.”

Again, she didn’t respond.

I said, “It’s good that we’re going to London.”

She nodded, then said, “You see why I went to Hilton Head.”

Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”

She didn’t reply to that.

I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.

As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”

She didn’t respond.

To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café… where was that?”

“On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”

“Oh, well… do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”

“You’re making that up.”

I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but…

“Me, too.”

“And thanks for the yacht.”

“We are going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”

I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”

Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Monday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day.

We were up early to see Edward off, and Susan made him a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs – which I helped him eat – and at 7:30 A.M., a car and driver came for him. I would have driven him to the airport, but he didn’t want to say goodbye at JFK. I remember a time when airports were like train stations or ship piers, and your friends or family walked you to the gate and could practically get on the plane, and could definitely get on the ocean liner to see you off with cocktails. But those days were long gone, and Edward had no memory of that simpler time. It occurred to me that there was a whole generation who accepted this war without end as normal. In fact, it was now normal.

Susan, Edward, and I stood in the forecourt, and I noted that Edward hadn’t forgotten his overnight bag. I asked my son with the genius-level IQ, “Do you have money?”

“Mom gave me money.”

“Good. Your ticket?”

“Got it.”

“Photo ID?”

“Got it.”

“Well, I guess you’re good to go.”

Susan said to him, “Call or e-mail as soon as you get in.”

“Okay.”

I remembered some trips I’d made when I still lived at home, and my send-offs hadn’t been quite as sad or solicitous as the send-offs that Susan and I give to our children. Well, maybe we overdo it as much as my parents underdid it.

Susan said, “We’ll call you from London.”

“Yeah. Good.” He asked, “When are you going to London?”

“Tomorrow.” As we told you last night.

“Great. Have a good trip.”

I reminded him, “Don’t forget, you have a Brioni suit coming in about eight weeks.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Susan reminded him, “Write or e-mail your grandparents – all of them – and tell them how much you enjoyed seeing them.”

“Okay.”

Well, the briefing seemed to be finished, and the driver was waiting, and Edward seemed anxious to get on the road.

We hugged and kissed, and he said to us with a smile, “You look good together.”

That sort of caught me off guard, and I didn’t reply, but Susan said, “Thank you. We’ll see you in L.A. in July, maybe August, then here in August for our sail.” She added, “And maybe a wedding in between.”

He smiled. “Great.”

One more hug and kiss, and Edward was in the car, which moved slowly down the gravel drive. He opened the rear window and waved, and then the car disappeared into the shadows of the tree-lined driveway.

Susan was wiping her eyes with a tissue. It’s always sad to see a loved one off, but it’s much sadder when you don’t know when – or if – you’ll ever see them again.

Sophie was staying until the Stanhopes arrived, which was scheduled for about 9:30 A.M., unless I went over to The Creek and cut the brake lines on their car.

Anyway, Sophie wanted to know if she should go out for the newspapers. I really wanted to see the blood-spattered front pages and read the sensational coverage of the Father’s Day… what? Massacre? No. Only Sally Da-da had been clipped. That wasn’t a massacre. How about the Father’s Day Pop-Pop?

But I’d promised Susan – and Felix Mancuso – that there would be no newspapers in the house. Maybe I’d go out later, after the Stanhopes left, and read the Daily News and the Post in a coffee shop.

I replied to Sophie’s offer, “No newspapers today.” I did say to her, however, “Mrs. Sutter and I may be in the news today.”

“Yes? Nice.”

“Well…” I let her know, “Maybe not so nice. Okay, we’ll be gone until… sometime in July. Maybe longer.” Then we’ll be cleaning the toilets ourselves. “You have the key, so please stop by once a week to check the house.”

“Okay. You have nice trip. Where you go?”

“A romantic month in Warsaw. Can we pick up anything for you?”

“Yes. I give you food list. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

She hesitated, then said to me, “Mrs. Sutter so happy now.”

“Thank you.”

“Mother and father not happy.”

What was your first clue? I said to Sophie, “They’re going home today.”

“Yes? Good.” She turned and went back to whatever she’d been doing.

So, to expand on what I was saying to Sophie about our names in the newspapers, I was fairly certain that some of the interesting background of this murder, which hadn’t been covered in Jenny’s slapdash instant-TV reporting, would come out in the tabloids over the next few days. Specifically, there would be more on Frank Bellarosa’s murder ten years ago, including the name of his killer (the blueblood society lady, Susan Stanhope Sutter) along with some nice file photos of her. And another interesting fact in that case was that Susan Sutter’s husband, John Sutter – use a good file photo, please – had been the dead don’s lawyer, and the Sutters had lived on the magnificent estate called Stanhope Hall, adjoining the don’s palatial estate, Alhambra. Plus, of course, there would be lots of speculation about Mrs. Sutter’s relationship with her Mafia neighbor. Well, it could have been worse; Susan could have been Frank’s lawyer, and I could have been his lover. That’s how Hollywood would make the movie.

So this was all going to be dug up again, and I was concerned about Edward and Carolyn seeing it. Thanks, Anthony, you asshole. I hoped that we didn’t have to dodge the news media outside the gates as we did last time around. I mean, the story was not about Susan and me, but you never know how these things are going to turn – especially when there’s a rich, handsome couple involved in some way. Maybe Jenny would show up, as she had ten years ago – before we became close – and do a background piece standing in front of the gates with the gatehouse behind her: “Here, behind these iron gates and these forbidding walls, live John and Susan Sutter, who ten years ago were immersed…” Enmeshed? Entangled? Whatever. Well, if she showed up, I’d go out there and give her a big hug and kiss, and shout into her microphone, “Jenny! Sweetheart! I missed you!”

That’s silly. It did occur to me, however, that I should call Mr. Nasim and give him a heads-up about all of this before he read something in the tabloids that mentioned John and Susan Sutter of Stanhope Hall. Maybe he’d double his offer for the house.

On the other hand, Susan and I were leaving tomorrow, so why bother calling anyone? My and Susan’s philosophy is: When the shit hits the fan, it’s time to hit the road.

Well, maybe one positive thing might come out of all this media coverage – maybe Anthony would have trouble finding a hit man who wanted to take the Sutter job. I mean, hit men are sort of low-profile guys, and they don’t like to hit public figures or people who are in the news. Right? That was an encouraging thought.

It was now 9:00 A.M., and Susan, sitting at the patio table with her coffee, her portable phone, and a pad and pencil, dialed her travel agent.

As the phone rang, she asked me, “Do you mind flying economy class?”

“What’s that?”

Before she could tell me, her agent answered, and Susan and the agent chatted a minute, then Susan booked us two economy class seats to London on Continental Airlines, departing JFK at 7:30 A.M. She said to the travel agent, “No, we don’t need a hotel. My husband has a flat in London.”

When did I get married? Did I lose a day somewhere?

Then she booked us on the Chunnel train to Paris, and in Paris, Susan blew it out and booked us for a week at the Ritz, where we’d stayed the last time. Then Air France economy class back to New York, arriving Wednesday afternoon, July 3, so we’d be back in time for the annual Fourth of July barbecue at Seawanhaka – unless we decided to go on the lam in London.

She hung up and said to me, “I’m really excited about this trip.”

“Me, too.”

“John, when can we get married?”

“We actually don’t need to. I can just file a petition in matrimonial court – de lunatico inquirendo – to annul our divorce decree, then we’ll be automatically married again.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Right. How about July Fourth at Seawanhaka? Everyone we know will be there anyway, and it won’t cost us anything, except what we spend for ourselves.”

She didn’t think that was such a good idea – women are not practical – and she called the club manager at Seawanhaka. Happily and luckily, the second Saturday in August was available, so Susan booked it for an outdoor wedding reception – details to be discussed at great length for the next two months.

She hung up and said to me, “This is perfect. We’ll spend our wedding night in a guest room at the club, then the next morning, the four of us will sail off in our new yacht for a two-week honeymoon.”

“Are your parents coming with us on our honeymoon?”

“No, John. Edward and Carolyn.”

“Oh, right.” I reminded her, “They didn’t come on our last honeymoon.”

She ignored that and said, “We’ll go to L.A. the week before, spend a few days with Edward, and bring him back with us for the wedding.”

“Good plan.”

So that sounded like a wonderful summer. Then, if things were resolved here, I’d find a job in September, and we’d live happily ever after – in a smaller house, without the Stanhope paydays every month. In the meantime, all we had to do was not get bumped off.

I was sitting at my desk in my home office with the door closed, composing an e-mail with misinformation to Elizabeth about Susan and me going to Istanbul – we needed to decide where it was that we were supposed to be going – and returning in three or four weeks. At that time, we’d settle Ethel’s estate.

I also reminded her, gently, about the letter, and asked her if we could meet today before I left early the next morning. I then called the gatehouse and told them to let Elizabeth Allard pass through.

As I hung up, a blue Ford Taurus pulled into the forecourt, and out stepped Dick-Brain and Ditsy. I should have told the guard to put them in chains, but apparently Susan had pre-cleared them.

I watched them through the window as they walked to the house, and they were speaking to each other as though they were doing a last-minute rehearsal. They looked a little grim, so I assumed they hadn’t been visited by an angel in the night who’d told them that God loved all humanity, except them, so they’d better not cut off the bucks to their family or they’d go straight to hell.

The doorbell rang, and I could hear Sophie greeting the Stanhopes. I was surprised that Susan hadn’t answered the door herself; in this world, you don’t let a household employee greet family or close friends, unless you’re truly indisposed. So, Susan was sending them a message – or busy sharpening a meat cleaver.

I heard the door close and the air suddenly became cold, and black flies appeared out of nowhere, then green slime began oozing out of the walls. The Stanhopes had arrived.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Susan and I had decided that she’d meet with Lucifer and the Wicked Witch of the South in the living room, and I would stay behind closed doors in the office so she could consult with me, or call me into the discussion, if appropriate.

I’d negotiated a lot of tax settlements this way, as well as some nasty family disputes about inheritances; different rooms for different people so that the parties could not get ugly or physical with each other. It usually works.

I checked my e-mail, and there were some messages from friends in London, inquiring about what they’d heard, either from Samantha or from my law colleagues. Well, I couldn’t reply to any of these e-mails until the jury came in from the living room with the verdict. So I played poker with the computer, and I was on a winning streak – lucky at cards, unlucky at love?

About fifteen minutes after the Stanhopes arrived, there was a knock on my door, and I said, “Come in.”

Sophie appeared and informed me, “I go now.”

“Well, thank you for all you did.”

The door was still open, and I could hear voices in the living room, and the tone and the cadence was distinctly somber and grave.

Sophie handed me a piece of paper, and I thought it was a note from Susan, or Sophie’s bill, but a quick glance showed me it was a list, written in Polish.

She said, “You give to food store.”

“Huh…? Oh, right.” During my romantic month in Warsaw. Why do I have to be such a wiseass? Well, maybe I could pick this stuff up in Glen Cove, or Brooklyn.

Sophie hesitated, then said, “Missus is sad. Maybe you go…” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

I replied, “All right. Thank you. You’re a very nice lady. We’ll see you when we return.”

“Yes.” She left and I closed the door behind her.

I heard her leave through the front door, and saw her get into her car and drive off.

Well, I suppose I could go in and resolve the matter by putting William in a choke hold and making him sign a blank sheet of paper that I’d fill in later. There is a legal basis for that – necessitasnonhabetlegem – necessity knows no law.

But I did promise Susan I’d sit tight and not interfere with this family business, and she promised me she’d speak to me before they left.

So, to kill time, I pulled up a few online news sources and read about Salvatore D’Alessio’s last supper. Most of the coverage was straight reporting, with not much new that I didn’t already know from Jenny Alvarez and Felix Mancuso, my man on the scene. One story, however, did say, “Calls to the Bellarosa residence on Long Island have not been returned, and calls to Mr. Bellarosa’s place of business, Bell Enterprises in Ozone Park, Queens, have been met with a recorded message.”

Well, I thought, that’s no way to run a business. What if someone needed limousines for a funeral? Like the D’Alessio family?

The story went on to say, “Sources close to the investigation say that it is likely that Tony Bellarosa has left the country.”

I hope he’s not in London or Paris. I mean, I wouldn’t want to run into him at the Tate Gallery or the Louvre. I should definitely avoid Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

Anyway, I had an idea, and I found Anthony’s card in my wallet and dialed his cell phone. After three rings, a recorded message said, “This number has been disconnected at the customer’s request. No further information is available.”

That didn’t sound like Anthony had met with a sudden accident; it sounded like he didn’t want to be tracked through his cell phone signal.

In any case, if I’d reached him, it would be a silly conversation – Anthony, where are you? John, where are you? I asked first, Anthony.

I then e-mailed Carolyn regarding the murder of Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a fellow resident of the borough of Brooklyn, and a man who I was certain had been well known to the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. I was also certain that Carolyn’s office was abuzz with this mob hit, and her colleagues were busy working with the NYPD and the FBI to develop leads regarding the killers, and Uncle Sal’s runaway bodyguard – and most importantly the identity of the person who paid for the whack. Well, figuring out that Anthony Bellarosa was the lead suspect was a no-brainer; finding him would not be so easy.

I let Carolyn know, if she didn’t already know, that Mom and Dad might be mentioned in the news. I did not say, “I hope this doesn’t cause you any embarrassment,” but she understood that. She also understood by now – or someone in the office had mentioned to her – that Anthony Bellarosa might be looking to settle the score with Mom. I did not mention this to her, but I did tell her that we were leaving for Europe the next morning and that we’d be in touch by phone before we left. She would understand what that was about.

I recalled that Anthony and Carolyn had met once, at Alhambra, and though I was not present, I was fairly sure that Carolyn had not been taken with the dark, handsome thug next door; in that respect, she had better judgment than her mother.

Anyway, Carolyn Sutter, Brooklyn ADA, might possibly have more information than I had, and I was sure she’d share that with her mother and father if appropriate.

So, having taken care of Bellarosa news and business, I went online and found some good Web sites for Paris, one of which had the name of two restaurants where Americans were welcome.

At about 10:00, Susan opened the door and entered. She looked pale and shaken, but not weepy. I sat her on the couch, then I sat next to her.

She took a deep breath, then said, “Well, their position is clear. If we marry, then my allowance is cut off, and I am disinherited, and disowned. Even if we don’t marry, they’ll do the same thing unless you leave the country.”

I took her hand and said, “We knew that.”

“Yes… but…” She took another breath and continued, “My father also said that he will disinherit the children… and stop the disbursements from their trust fund… and hold up the disbursement of the principal until they reach the age of fifty.” She looked at me and asked, “Can he do that?”

I replied, “As I said, he can disinherit them at any time. As for the trust fund, I would need to see the trust documents. But I did see them once, and I know that Peter is the trustee, and your father, through Peter, can stop the distributions and hold the corpus and appreciation – the whole amount – until Edward and Carolyn reach the age of fifty.”

She did some math and said, “That’s almost twenty-five years from now.”

I tried to show her the bright side of that and said, “Without the distributions, the fund should quadruple by then.” Unless the fund administrators made some really bad investment choices.

She said, “I’m worried about now. Not twenty-five years from now.”

“I know.” I tried to get a sense of what she was thinking, and I got a hint when she withdrew her hand from mine.

So this was the moment that I knew would come, and I’d already given her my solution to the problem, which she’d rejected when it was just me laying out the problem and the resolution. But now that she’d gotten the final word from dear old Dad – and I was sure he was not bluffing – it had hit her like a judge handing down a life sentence.

Out of curiosity, I asked, “How about your mother?”

She shook her head, then replied, “She said that all I had to do was tell you to leave and everything would be all right again.”

That wasn’t true, but I didn’t respond.

Finally, she asked me, “What should I do, John?”

Well, if you have to ask, Susan, you already know the answer.

“John?”

I took a deep breath and said, “What you have to do is get a lawyer-”

“Why? You are a lawyer-”

“Listen to me. You need to make sure that this sort of thing does not happen again. Your father needs to set up a trust fund for you, and new trusts for the children that will basically transfer to all three of you the portion of his estate that you and the children would receive as an inheritance. And this trust fund needs to be set up so that you and the children will receive annual distributions, free from his control, and his manipulation, and you need to pick the fund trustee, and it will not be Peter. Do you understand?”

“I… why would he do that?”

“Well, for a consideration on your part. In other words, in exchange for something he wants from you.”

“What…? Oh…”

“You and the children need legal assurances that he can’t control your lives with his money, and in return you – and I – give him what he wants – in writing.”

“John. No…”

“Yes.”

She looked at me and I turned toward her and our eyes met. She kept staring at me, then tears ran down her cheeks.

In as firm a voice as I was able to muster, I said to her, “This is the only way, Susan, that we – you and I together – can protect the children, and protect your future as well.”

She looked away from me and wiped her eyes with her hands.

To bring this home, I stood and said, “Go back in there and tell him I am prepared to return to London – without his million dollars – but not until I have spoken to him about what he has to do for you, Edward, and Carolyn before I leave.” I assured her, “He’ll understand.”

She remained seated, still shaking her head, then she said, “The children say they don’t care…”

“They don’t. But we do.” I asked her, “Do you want Peter to be the sole beneficiary of the Stanhope fortune?”

She didn’t reply, but she didn’t have to.

I took her hand and lifted her to her feet. I suggested, “Go in the kitchen or someplace, get yourself composed, get angry, then go in there and tell him what the deal is.”

She didn’t respond.

I continued, “If he storms out, then you’re free of him and his money. But if he wants to speak to me, then we’ll work out an arrangement that loosens his grip on the money bag.”

She shook her head again, then said in a barely audible voice, “No… John… I will not let you go.”

“You – we – have no choice. Look, Susan… maybe in a year or so, after we’ve had a chance to think about this, and see how we feel-”

“No!”

“Okay, then I’ll speak to him now. Send him in here.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll go out there-”

“No… no… let me… I just need a minute…” She started to sit again, but I took her arm and moved her toward the door. I said, “It’s okay. You’re brave and you know what you have to do.”

“No… I won’t…”

I got very stern and said, “We will not sacrifice our children’s future for our own selfish-”

She pulled away from me and said, “I will not let you leave again.”

I took her by the shoulders and said, “I am leaving. But not until I put things in order here, for the children, which is what I should have done ten or twenty years ago-”

“No. John, please…”

“But I promise you, Susan… I promise that we will be together again.”

She looked at me, and tears were still running down her cheeks. She sobbed, then put her head on my shoulder and asked, “Do you promise…?”

“I do. Okay…” I moved her toward the door, and walked her out to the foyer. She turned and looked at me. I smiled and said, “Tell your father that your lawyer wants to speak to him.”

She didn’t smile, but she nodded, and I went back to the office and closed the door.

I stood there for a full minute, then sat at the desk.

I picked up a pencil and made a few notes about what I needed to cover with William. But my mind, and my heart, was not in it. Basically, I was going to negotiate a deal with him that ensured that Susan and I would never see each other again.

It was possible, I suppose, that William would reject the idea of giving up control of his money, and thus of his daughter – because what was he getting out of the deal? Certainly not Susan’s love and companionship, or the love of his grandchildren. All he was getting out of this deal was the guarantee that John and Susan Sutter would never again see each other, and I wondered if that was enough for him. Well, I guess that depended on how honest he was about his motives for ending this engagement. Did he and Charlotte really believe that Susan was making a terrible mistake? Or was this really about William’s hate for me?

Surely William realized that if he accepted this deal, then he’d not only be rid of me but also lose his daughter and his grandchildren as soon as they were financially independent. Basically, I’d turned this back on him, and put him in a no-win situation. And yet he might go for it if he were more consumed with hate for me than love for Susan, Edward, and Carolyn. I was sure, too, that Peter would pressure his father into taking the deal if it meant that Peter, too, would get his inheritance now. Then Peter could also tell Daddy to go fuck himself.

The door opened, and Susan stepped into the office. I stood and we faced each other. She said to me, “My father totally rejects your suggestion.”

“All right.” That answered at least one question.

She seemed drained, I thought, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so lost and defeated by any situation.

She looked away from me and said, “But… his offer to you stands if you will accept it now, and get on the flight to London tomorrow… alone.”

“All right.” I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, so I guess I had my answer to another question. And really, I didn’t blame her. Love, unfortunately, does not conquer all. Or, to be more kind, Susan’s love for her children – our children – overrode her love for me. And I felt the same way. Whoever said that children were hostages to fortune must have had a father-in-law like William Stanhope.

I wanted to tell Susan that without any legal guarantees for herself and the children, her father would and could do whatever he wanted with his money, including turning everything over to Peter. But that would sound self-serving, like I was trying to convince her that my leaving did not necessarily guarantee her, or the children, a financially secure life; it guaranteed her that William would continue to control her life, and probably pick her next husband for her. Maybe William wanted her to marry dead Dan’s son, Bob.

On that subject, I asked her, “What did he offer you?”

She hesitated, then said, truthfully, “A large increase in my allowance if I sold this house and moved back to Hilton Head.”

“I see.” Well, the reign of William the Dominator continues. As I said, I didn’t blame Susan, and I believed that if it was only our lives to consider, then she’d throw her parents out the door. I did not, and would not in the future, think any less of her for making this hard decision. I had already made the same decision. I said to her, “Tell him I’m leaving tomorrow. And tell him, too, that he can take his bribe and shove it up his ass.”

Susan just stood there, then dropped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. This is our decision, not just yours.” I said, “Better yet, send him in here and I’ll tell him myself.”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t want to see you… he just wants your answer.”

“My answer is I’ll leave tomorrow if he comes into this office now.”

“I’ll tell him.” She looked at me and said, “I love you.”

“I know you do.”

“Do you love me?”

“I do.” But I can’t.

She nodded again and said, “We had this time together… and I will never forget this week.”

“Neither will I.” I suggested, “You need to get on a plane to somewhere tomorrow and get out of here until things settle down.”

“I know… they want me to come to Hilton Head. But…” She asked me, “What am I going to do without you?”

“You’ll do fine.” I reminded her, “I’ll be here waiting for your father.”

She took a step toward me, but I said, “Take care of this.”

She looked hurt, and she looked so lost. I wanted to take her into my arms, and I would, but not until they were gone.

She stood motionless, then nodded and left.

I stared at the door, hoping she’d turn around and come back, and we’d both go into the living room and throw the Stanhopes out of the house. Our house. I also hoped that she wouldn’t make that decision.

I felt… a lot of things. Anger, for sure. But mostly I felt that sense of loss that I remembered from ten years ago; that understanding that it was over, and worse, that it should not be this way – that there was too much love between us that was being thrown aside for reasons that might not be good enough to justify the decision to part. And I felt, too, there was something wrong here… that Susan had been right and that Fate had brought us together again. So how was this happening?

I remained standing, staring at the door.

The only comfort I could take in this was that Susan, and Edward and Carolyn, could now see William Stanhope for what he was – and that knowledge would do them more good over the years than his money. The other thing that was comforting was my sure belief that William understood that I was waiting in the wings, and that I would reappear if he didn’t follow through on his promise to at least maintain the status quo. And surely the bastard would be happy to hear that I didn’t want his money; but somewhere in his dim brain he’d eventually understand that I didn’t owe him anything either, and that I was a six-hour plane ride away, and free to return if he didn’t take care of my children.

I thought about tomorrow – about getting on the flight, alone, and returning to London. Probably, I could get my job back, if I wanted it, and Samantha, too, if I wanted her. But really what I wanted to do was to find a yacht owner who needed an experienced skipper for a long sail. That, I knew from the last time, would remove the temptation – my and Susan’s – to make a bad decision based on love.

I heard a car pulling up and looked out the window. Elizabeth’s SUV came to a stop, and she got out.

I went to the front door and opened it before she rang the bell.

She smiled and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Come in.”

“Just for a moment.” She let me know, “I got your e-mail.”

We entered the house, and I showed her into the office and closed the door.

She looked around, noted Susan’s oil paintings on the wall, and commented, “Susan is very talented.”

I glanced at the paintings, and a flood of memories came back to me – twenty years of living with a woman who had been delightfully crazy, and who had become, over the last ten years, a little less crazy, though no less delightful. And now, the Susan who had just walked out of here was… well, defeated. That, more than anything else, made my heart ache.

Elizabeth asked, “John? Are you all right?”

“Yes. So how are you holding up?”

“I have good and bad moments.” She added, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.” I asked her, “Would you like to sit?”

“No. I’m running late for a staff meeting at one of my shops.”

“They can’t start without you.”

She smiled. “I’m afraid they might.” She opened her bag and took out a small, stationery-sized envelope. She said to me, “This is yours.”

I took the plain white envelope and saw that it was addressed to “Mr. John Sutter,” in Ethel’s hand. I said to Elizabeth, “Thank you.” I took it to the desk, picked up a letter opener, and said, “Let’s read it.”

“No. You read it. Mom addressed it to you.”

“Well, I know, but we agreed-”

“If there is anything in there that you want to share with me, give me a call.” She added, “I trust your judgment on this.”

“All right… but…”

“You don’t look well.”

“Father’s Day hangover.”

She smiled and said, “You should have seen me Sunday morning.”

“That was a nice gathering.”

“I’d like to have you and Susan over for dinner when you return from your trip.”

“That would be nice.”

“Tell her I stopped by and said hello and bon voyage.”

“I will.”

“And get some caffeine and aspirin.”

“I will. Thanks.”

I walked her out to her car, and she asked me, “Is that the Stanhopes’ car?”

“It is.”

“Oh, God. I see why you’re under the weather.”

I forced a smile and said, “They’re leaving for the airport soon.”

“Let’s celebrate. See if Susan wants to come by tonight for drinks.”

“Thanks, but we need to pack. Early flight.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” She asked, “Why are you going to Istanbul?”

“Just to get away. I spent a week there when I was sailing.”

She looked at me and said, “Maybe someday, some handsome man will ask me to sail with him around the world.”

Maybe sooner than you think. I said, “If you wish it, it will happen.”

She didn’t reply.

I said to her, “Tell Mitch I said hello.”

“Who?”

Well, that answered that question.

She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Send me a postcard.”

“I will. We will.”

“Bye.” She got in her BMW and drove off.

I went back in the house, into the office, and shut the door.

Well… I had too much on my mind and too much on my plate to think about Elizabeth. And, in truth, my heart was still here.

I stood at the desk and looked at the envelope on it.

The intercom buzzed, and I picked it up.

Susan said, “I’m in the kitchen. My father will not see you in the office, but he will speak to you on the phone later – or after you return to London.”

She sounded more composed now – or maybe shell-shocked. I replied, “All right.”

“He’s going out to the car so that I can spend a few minutes alone with my mother.”

“Fine.”

“Please don’t go out to speak to him.”

“I won’t.” I said to her, “I’ll see you after they leave.” I hung up.

I heard the front door open, and I saw William walking to his car.

I’m usually in control of a situation, or if I’m not, I take control. But there are times – like this time – when the best thing to do is nothing. And, really, what did I need to say to William Stanhope? I didn’t need to tell him what I thought of him – he already knew that. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask him to reconsider his demands, or try to soften his heart. So the only thing I could do now that would be positive and productive would be to go out there and smack his head against the steering wheel until the airbag popped. And I would have if he was younger.

And on top of all this, Anthony Bellarosa was still out there, though after tomorrow, when Susan and I were gone – in opposite directions – that problem would be on hold, and with luck, resolved.

I stared at William, who’d gotten in the car and started it, probably listening to the radio. I wondered how he and Charlotte were going to react when they heard about Salvatore D’Alessio’s murder, and Anthony Bellarosa being the prime suspect, and discovered that their daughter was again in the news. Well, I’m sure they’d insist that she return to Hilton Head immediately. I realized that neither one of us was coming back here to live.

I sliced open the envelope, pulled out four folded sheets of plain white stationery, and glanced at Ethel’s neat but crabbed handwriting. I read:

Dear Mr. Sutter,

I write this letter to you from what I believe is my death bed, and I write in anticipation of your return from London to settle the affairs of my estate. This letter will be given to you at the time of my death by my daughter, Elizabeth Corbet, on the condition that you do, in fact, return from London for that purpose, and, further, that you and I have spoken, in person, upon your return.

Well, I thought, I’d met both conditions – I flew in from London, and I visited her in hospice. And she met the final condition. She died.

The only certainty there was that she was going to die; my trip to New York had not been so definite. In retrospect, I should have stayed in London and saved everyone a lot of trouble and sorrow.

I watched William Stanhope awhile, trying to decide if I should just go out there and tell him, calmly but firmly, that he was not to screw around with his grandchildren’s trust funds or inheritance. I mean, what was he going to do if I walked toward the car? Drive off to the airport and leave his wife here?

I looked back at Ethel’s letter to me and read:

I am tired and not feeling well as I write this, so I will get right to my purpose. I know that you and your father-in-law have never cared for each other, and I know, too, that this state of affairs had caused your former wife much grief, and caused trouble between you and her, and I believe, too, that the Stanhopes influenced Mrs. Sutter in her decision to sell her house and join them in Hilton Head.

Well, I could see where this was going – Ethel was playing Cupid at the end, just as she’d done when I’d visited her. Why, I wondered, did she care about Susan and me getting together again? Well, she liked Susan, and I was sure they’d bonded again since Susan had returned, and Ethel knew that Susan wanted to reunite with me. So, Ethel, with not much else to do while waiting for the end, had gotten it into her head to make a final pitch on Susan’s behalf.

I put the letter aside for later. Okay, Ethel. But you forgot about William Stanhope. Actually, she hadn’t, which was why she’d mentioned him. Also, Ethel never liked William, and this was her chance to… what?

I picked up the letter again and continued reading:

What I am about to write is very difficult for me to put into words. Therefore, let me be direct. William Stanhope is a man who has shown himself to be morally corrupt, depraved, and sinful.

Whoa. I sat down and turned to the next page.

His shameless and dissolute behavior began when he was a college student, and continued throughout his military service, and beyond, and did not cease even after his marriage. I have difficulty, even now, so many years later, allowing my mind to return to that time. I do not wish to be explicit in my descriptions of his behavior, but I will tell you that he forced himself on the youngest and most innocent of the female staff at Stanhope Hall-

I stopped reading and drew a deep breath. My God. I reread the last line, then continued:

He fancied the foreign born girls, those being the most unlikely to resist him. Before and during the war, it was the Irish girls who fell prey to him, and one of them, Bridget Behan by name, attempted to take her own life after he had his way with her. And after the war, there were a number of displaced persons, mostly German and Polish girls who could hardly speak English, and who were terrified of being deported, and this caused them to bend to his will. One of these girls, a Polish girl of no more than sixteen, whose name I am sorry I cannot recall, became pregnant by him, and he had her returned to her country.

I cannot tell you here all that happened during those years, but I can tell you that his disgraceful behavior continued, unabated, until he and Mrs. Stanhope departed for Hilton Head.

And now, Mr. Sutter, you are thinking to yourself why have I waited until this moment to reveal this? First, I must tell you that I, and others at Stanhope Hall, attempted to bring this matter to the attention of Augustus Stanhope while he lived, but to his shame, he would not hear our complaints. And to my everlasting shame, I did not press the matter with him. And to my husband George’s shame, he would not take the matter to Augustus Stanhope, and told me to be silent. You must understand that in those days, it was not likely that these girls would make a complaint to the authorities, or if they did, would they be believed over the word of William Stanhope? I know, too, that these girls were at times threatened with discharge or deportation, and at times they were paid to keep their silence. I cannot tell you how many young girls fell victim to William Stanhope, but by my reckoning, not a year passed without some incident or complaint that came to my attention. Now, I must say here that some of these girls, perhaps more than I know, were willing participants in these liaisons, and sold themselves for money. But there were at least as many who did not welcome his attentions, but who nonetheless succumbed to his insistent pressure and his physical aggression.

I realize, as I write this, that I have no proof of what I say, except that there is a fine, upstanding lady who is as familiar with these events as I am, and her name is Jenny Cotter, a name which you or Mrs. Sutter may recall from her years as head housekeeper at Stanhope Hall. Mrs. Cotter is alive as I write this, and is in residence at Harbor View Nursing Home in Glen Cove. She can, and is willing to, give you more particulars if you should need or want more than I have written here.

And so, Mr. Sutter, my letter to you is as much my confession as it is my apology for staying silent all these years. Please understand that my only purpose in remaining silent, aside from my husband’s insistence that I do so, was so as not to cause young Miss Susan – later Mrs. Sutter (and Mrs. Stanhope, for that matter) any pain or heartbreak. But now that I am about to make my journey into the Kingdom of Heaven, I know that I need to unburden my soul of this, and I know, in my heart, that you are the person I should have gone to with this matter many years ago. And I would have, if not for Mrs. Sutter, and this is now in your hands to decide if she should know. I pray that you read this letter, and pray that you confront Mr. Stanhope with this letter and the word of Mrs. Cotter as proof of his transgressions and offenses against these girls. I know that God will forgive me for my silence, and God will forgive him as well if he is forced to look into his soul and face up to his sins and ask for God’s forgiveness.

Sincerely yours,

Ethel Allard

I looked at the four pages in my hand, then looked out the window at William Stanhope, sitting impatiently in his car, waiting for his wife and daughter to finish with their visit.

I opened Susan’s phone book and dialed William’s cell phone.

I saw him find his phone in his jacket pocket, look at the Caller ID, then answer, “Yes?”

I said to him, “William, this is your future-son-in-law. Come in here. I need to speak to you.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

“I still don’t understand,” Susan said, “how you convinced him to change his mind.”

“I can be very persuasive,” I replied.

She’d been questioning me about this, on and off, since her parents left an hour ago, but mostly she was just happy and relieved that it had turned out so well. She called it a miracle, and maybe it was. Thank you, Ethel, and tell that angel at the Heavenly Bar to give you another sherry. It’s on me.

We were sitting in the shade on the patio, celebrating with a few beers, and Susan asked me, “What can I make you for lunch?” She promised, “Anything you want.”

“I was thinking of yogurt. But a pepperoni pizza wouldn’t be so bad.”

Without comment, she picked up her portable phone, called information, then connected with a local pizza parlor. She’d have to memorize that number.

The protocols involved in ordering a pizza seemed to be a mystery to Susan Stanhope – Sicilian or regular? – but she was making good progress. She said to the pizza man, “Hold on,” then said to me, “He wants to know if there is anything else you want on that?”

“Well, how about sausage and meatballs?”

She added that to the toppings, listened to another pizza question, then asked me, “Do you want that cut into eight slices or twelve?”

I remembered a joke that Frank had once told me and I replied, “Twelve – I’m hungry.”

She smiled, then gave our phone number and address – Stanhope Hall, Grace Lane, Lattingtown – no, there’s no house number, just look for the gatehouse – then she called the gatehouse to clear the deliveryman.

I sat with my bare feet on the table and took another swallow of beer.

Susan returned to the subject of William’s apparent capitulation and said to me, “I know my father, and I know that these are going to be tough negotiations.”

“I’m a good negotiator.” Especially when I have the other guy’s balls in my hand, and I’m squeezing. Or should I twist?

“John… do you think he was… insincere? Or that he’ll renege?”

“He will do no such thing.”

“But… I just don’t understand-”

“Susan, I believe that your father had… well, an epiphany. I think, when he was sitting alone in his car, that it just came to him that he was wrong, and maybe he was moved by the Holy Spirit. I mean, I couldn’t believe it myself when I saw him from the window, getting out of the car with this rapturous look on his face, then coming into my office, and saying, ‘John, I would like to speak to you.’”

What he actually said was, “How dare you insist that I come into your office?”

Well, I apologized to him, of course – or did I tell him to sit down, shut up, and read the letter? In any case, as he read the letter, he went from livid to pale, and it was sort of interesting to see someone’s skin color change that quickly. I wish I’d had a video camera. Also, his hands trembled. After that, the negotiations were rather easy. He did bluster now and then, saying things like, “No one will believe the ramblings of an old woman on medication,” and so forth. So I suggested we show the letter to his daughter and his wife to see what they thought, then pay a visit to Mrs. Cotter at the nursing home to see if she could clarify any of this. That shut him up, of course, but he did utter the word “Blackmail.”

I know this is blackmail, and I’m a lawyer, and this goes against all my beliefs and principles. What William had done – or what he is alleged to have done – was not only despicable, but also a crime, though unfortunately the statutes had run out on his crimes years ago. So if he was to pay for these crimes, then it would have to be in another way. The Bar Association and the courts might have another view of this, but at least Ethel would speak up for me when I stood before the Final Court.

Susan said to me, “He looked… pale. Shaken.”

“Did he? I didn’t notice.”

“And my mother seemed confused that he’d had this sudden and complete change of heart.”

“Well, she hadn’t shared his divine revelation.”

“John…?”

“Yes?”

“Did you… threaten him with something?”

“What could I threaten him with?”

“I don’t know… but-”

“Can we change the subject?” I asked, “Whose turn is it to get beer?”

She stood and went into the kitchen.

I finished my beer and thought about Ethel’s letter. She’d made her deathbed confession to me, but according to Father Hunnings, Ethel had also spoken to him about the contents of this letter – and Hunnings had advised Ethel not to give it to me, and he’d also put some pressure on Elizabeth to withhold the letter. Why? To protect Ethel’s memory, as he said? Or did he want to get ahold of the letter himself, then give it to William in exchange for… what? A comfortable retirement?

Susan returned with the beers and said, “John, I think you’re too modest. I think that my father’s change of heart was because of something you said, not because of some… divine message.”

I replied, modestly, “Well… I did my best, and I was persuasive, but I really think I had help from a higher source.”

She reminded me, “I told you I believe that this was our Fate, and that we have a guardian angel watching over us.”

“It seems that way.” I took a slug of beer.

She moved on to another subject and asked me, “Do you think we should get married at Saint Mark’s?”

“Why not? Father Hunnings gives a discount for the second time.”

She laughed, then reminded me, “You don’t like him, and I don’t think he is particularly fond of you.”

“Really? Well, then I’ll speak to him and smooth things over.” And mention that I read Ethel’s letter, and maybe I would ask him if he had any knowledge – other than in a general sense – of the contents.

Susan said, “I’d like it if you would do that.” She added, “I’d like to get married there again.”

“No problem. And I’ll even get Father Hunnings to waive the prenuptial counseling.”

She smiled and said, “I think you’re getting all full of yourself after your success with my father.”

“I’m on a roll,” I agreed. And while I was remaking my world to suit myself, I assured her, “Not only will your parents bless our marriage, they will also pay for it.”

“All I want is their blessing.”

“I want to give them the bill. And don’t forget to e-mail them with a Save-the-Date. They’ll want to come in early to help out with the arrangements – and discuss your dowry.”

She ignored my suggestions and asked me, “John, are you willing to forgive and forget? I mean, about my parents?”

I thought about that and replied, “It’s not my nature to hold a grudge.”

Susan thought that was funny for some reason, and suggested, “No, it’s the central core of your being.”

“You know me too well.” I replied, seriously, “I can’t ever forgive or forget what they’ve put us through during our marriage, and just recently, but…” I can be magnanimous in victory, so I continued, “I will say this: If your father – and your mother, as well – is looking for forgiveness and trying to make amends, then I’m open to that, and I’m certain that your father is going to forgive me for calling him an unprincipled asshole, and so forth. But my question to you is: How do you feel about them?”

She took a deep breath, then replied, “I’m angry. And I’ve seen this very unpleasant side of them. But they are my parents, and I love them, and I will forgive them.” She added, “We would want that from our children.”

“Well, we would, but we don’t need their forgiveness for anything.”

She stayed silent a few moments, then confessed, “I did. For what I did. And they forgave me, unconditionally. Just as you have.”

I nodded and said, “Life is short.”

Maybe I could eventually forgive Charlotte and William for what they did to the Sutter family – the best revenge is living well. But I could never forgive William for what he did to those young girls, and that would stay with me, and with him, until the day we both died.

So we sat in the shade of the patio and looked out into the sunny rose garden as we sipped our cold beers. It really was an exquisite day, and nature was in full bloom, and the air was scented with roses and honeysuckle. I watched a big monarch butterfly trying to decide where to land.

Susan broke into my quiet moment and said, “We need to e-mail the children with this good news, and give them some calendar updates, and… well, maybe mention that they might see something in the newspapers about… us.”

“You should e-mail Carolyn about this good news. I’ve already e-mailed her about our possible mention in the bad news.”

Susan nodded, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“Subject closed.”

“All right. Then I’ll e-mail Edward…”

“And definitely tell him that Grandpa has blessed our marriage by handing over his trust fund to him. But don’t say too much about our possible appearance in the news.”

“All right. But you know that he and Carolyn will discuss this.”

“Fine. And we’ll answer their questions truthfully, but with a little spin.” I further suggested, “Call your parents and set up a date when they can visit Edward in L.A. They need to get to know their heirs better.”

She smiled, then said, “That’s not a bad idea.”

Again we sat in silence, enjoying and savoring the moment together. There are not many perfect hours such as this, especially on a day that had begun so badly, which made this moment all the more extraordinary.

Of course, in every Garden of Eden, there is at least one serpent lurking in the flowers, and we actually had two. The first had a name, and it was Anthony Bellarosa. We knew he was here, and we were avoiding him, and we even avoided speaking of him – at least for now.

The second serpent had no name, and it had recently slithered into the garden. But if I had to give it a name, I’d call it Doubt.

So, to kill this, before it killed us, I said to Susan, “What we did was an act of love.”

She didn’t reply, so I continued, “I never doubted your love, and I know that your heart was breaking.”

Again no reply, so I concluded, “And if we had to do it over again, we would do the same thing.”

She sat there for a long time, then said, “You didn’t even want to take his money. And I… I feel so venal, so compromised-”

“No. Remember why we did what we did. It wasn’t for us.” It was to screw William and Peter. And, of course, to see that Edward and Carolyn got their fair share of the family fortune.

“John, that might be true for you, but I’m not sure about me.”

“Don’t doubt your motives. Your father created an impossible dilemma.”

“I know… but, God, I felt that I was selling myself and betraying you, and giving up our love for-”

“Susan, I don’t feel that way, so neither should you.”

“All right… you’re a very loving and wise man.”

“I am. Have another beer.”

She forced a smile, then said, “I hope this never comes back to haunt us.”

I pointed out, “If we could work through what happened ten years ago, then this is nothing.”

“I love you.”

“That’s why we’re here.” I asked, “Where is the pizza guy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never ordered a pizza in my life.”

“Well, we’ll fix that in the next twenty years.”

We sat and talked about London, and Paris, with maybe a side trip to the Loire Valley, as we’d done many years ago.

Susan’s portable phone rang, and it was the guard at the gate announcing the pizza man.

I got up, went through the house, and waited for him outside the front door. But as I stood there, I realized that it was moments like this, when you are least expecting it, that your world could suddenly explode – as it had for Salvatore D’Alessio.

I saw a small van coming up the driveway. I went back into the house, bounded up the stairs, grabbed the carbine, went down into my office, and looked out the window. The van stopped, and a young Hispanic-looking guy got out, retrieved the pizza from the rear, then ambled toward the front door. I mean, I wasn’t thinking that the pizza delivery kid could be a hit man, but it was just the act of me standing outside, with no one around, and Alhambra Estates five hundred yards away through the trees, that had spooked me for a moment. Well, that was good. Uncle Sal had been stuffing a cannoli in his mouth, or doing something other than watching the door, and the next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrels of a shotgun. Then, bang, he was in hell.

The doorbell rang, and I went to the front door. I stuck the carbine in the umbrella stand and opened up.

I looked over the pizza guy’s shoulder as we exchanged pizza for money, plus a nice tip, and I locked the door.

I can balance a pizza box on one finger, but I used my whole hand, and carried the box and the carbine out to the patio.

Susan couldn’t help but notice the carbine, and asked, “Do we really need that out here?”

“I hope not.”

I opened the box on the table, and the aroma wafted into my nose and engulfed my soul.

I sat, and Susan went inside, then returned with plates, napkins, knives, and forks. I explained that napkins were optional, and the rest of the stuff was not necessary.

I know that Lady Stanhope has eaten pizza – I’ve seen her – but she always approaches food like this with some trepidation and perhaps a little disdain.

I showed her how to flip the point back and bite it off, then fold the slice to stabilize it. I said, “It’s basic physics.”

So we sat there with our beers, and our pizza, and our rifle, and we had a nice lunch.

Susan confessed, “This actually tastes good.”

“And it’s good for you.”

“I don’t think so, but we can have this once in a while.”

I pointed out, “We could buy the whole pizza parlor.”

She laughed, then said, “Well, John, you saved the day, and I guess I owe you something.” She asked me, “Aside from the yacht, and unhealthy food, what would you like?”

“Just you, darling.”

“You already have me.”

“And that’s all I want.”

“How about a sports car?”

“Okay.”

I ate half the pizza – six slices – and Susan had a second piece, and we wrapped the rest for my breakfast.

Then we went to the bedroom to work off the pizza – sort of a victory lap – and pack for our trip. I had a whole wardrobe in London, so I just threw some odds and ends in my suitcase, and Susan saw this as an opportunity to pack more of her clothes in my luggage. She said, “I have some nice things in the basement that I haven’t gotten around to unpacking.”

Well, we could be gone a lot longer than three weeks, so I didn’t object.

After we packed our suitcases, we took a nap, then at about 5:00 P.M., I got up and said to Susan, “I’m going to run into Locust Valley for a few things. Would you like to come?”

“No, I have a lot to do here, but I’ll give you a list of what I need.”

So I got dressed and said to her, “Keep the doors locked, and don’t go outside.”

She didn’t reply.

I further advised her, “Keep the carbine or the shotgun near you. I’ll put the carbine in the umbrella stand near the front door.”

“John-”

“Susan, we have about” – I looked at my watch – “less than fifteen hours before we’re lifting off the runway. Let’s play it safe.”

She shrugged, then asked me, “What time do you want the car to pick us up for a seven-thirty A.M. flight?”

We’d have to leave for the airport at about 5:00 A.M. in the dark, so I replied, “We will take my rental car so that I can keep the carbine with us, and we’ll park the car in the long-term lot.”

“I’d really rather take a car service and avoid the hassle.”

“Me, too. But we need to take that final precaution.”

She didn’t look happy about that and said, “John, we’re going on vacation – not into battle.”

“Don’t argue with me, or I’ll call your father and tell him to straighten you out.”

She smiled and said, “You are going to be insufferable.”

“Yes.”

I gave her a kiss, and she said, “Don’t be too long. Do you want my cell phone?”

“I do.” She gave me her cell phone, and I said goodbye, took the carbine, and went downstairs. I placed the rifle in the umbrella stand, then went out the front door, which I locked.

I had the keys for both cars, and I decided to take my Taurus, which would be easier to park downtown.

I got in and drove down the driveway. When I got to the gatehouse, I used the remote and the gates swung inward. I had a thought, and I honked my horn, then got out of the car.

The gatehouse door opened, and a young security guard, whom I didn’t know, came out.

I said to him, “I’m Mr. Sutter and I live in the guest cottage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you alone?”

“I am until eight P.M., then a second man comes on duty.”

“All right… well, what I need you to do, in about fifteen or twenty minutes, is to drive up to the guest cottage and just walk around to see that everything looks okay.”

“Well… I’m not supposed to leave my post.”

“That is part of your post tonight.” I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Mrs. Sutter is in the house, and we are expecting no visitors, so do not let anyone in, unless you call us and get an okay. I will be back in about half an hour.” Actually, it could be closer to an hour, but he didn’t need to know that.

He seemed happy with his tip and replied, “No problem,” whatever that means.

I got back in the car and headed toward Locust Valley.

Aside from Susan’s shopping list in my pocket, I had Ethel’s letter, which I needed to photocopy. In fact, I’d make twenty copies, and send one to William every month, plus Father’s Day, Christmas, and his birthday.

As I got to the edge of the village, I called Susan, and she answered. I said, “Traffic is heavy, and parking will be tight, so I’m not sure how long this will take.”

“Take your time.”

“Do you need onions?”

“No onions, sweetie.”

“Okay.” I told her, “I asked the guard at the gate to check out the house in about fifteen minutes.” I reminded her, “The carbine is in the umbrella stand in case you need to go downstairs. Leave the shotgun in the bedroom. I’ll call you later.”

The village was crowded with cars jockeying for parking spaces. I glanced at the dashboard clock: 5:39. Well, with any luck, I could be back within the hour.

What could happen in one hour?

CHAPTER SEVENTY

I bought everything on the list for our trip, and I also made a dozen copies of Ethel’s letter at a local print shop in case William needed monthly reminders of why we were negotiating a family financial agreement. I began the fifteen-minute drive back to Stanhope Hall. It was now 6:23 on the dashboard clock.

I used Susan’s cell phone to call the house, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message. “I’ll be home in ten or fifteen minutes. Call me when you get this.”

She was probably in the shower, or despite my advice to stay inside, maybe she was on the patio without her portable house phone. Another very likely possibility was that she was in the basement, looking for clothes to pack, and there was no phone down there.

When I was a few minutes from Grace Lane, I called the gatehouse to tell them to open the gates, but no one answered. Maybe the guard was on the other line, or he was outside, or using the bathroom.

I turned onto Grace Lane and pressed on the accelerator. Within three minutes, I was in front of the gates, and I used the remote control to open them.

I drove through the moving gates and glanced at the gatehouse as I passed by. No one stepped out the door, and I continued on faster than I would normally drive up the curving gravel driveway to the guest cottage. I wasn’t worried, but neither was I completely unconcerned.

I saw that Susan’s Lexus was gone, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, I was angry at her for not calling to let me know she was going out, and also angry at her for going out at all, especially without her cell phone. The woman just doesn’t listen.

I parked the Taurus, retrieved the shopping bags, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

Then I realized that this made no sense. I could imagine her just hopping in her car and running off on an errand, but I couldn’t imagine her not having the sense to call me. I took her cell phone out of my pocket to see if I’d missed a call from her, but there was nothing on the display except the time: 6:42.

I glanced back at the umbrella stand and saw that the carbine was missing.

Then I smelled cigarette smoke.

I stood frozen, and my heart started beating quickly. I dropped the shopping bags, then took a step backwards toward the front door and started to dial 9-1-1 on the cell phone.

Anthony Bellarosa stepped out of my office and said, “Drop the fucking phone.”

I stared at him. He was wearing the blue uniform of All-Safe Security, and he had my M-1 carbine in his hands – aimed at me.

“Drop the fucking phone, or you’re dead.”

I couldn’t believe that he was actually standing there. Mancuso said he was out of town, and Mancuso also said Anthony would not do this himself. And I believed that… except I also believed that this was personal, and that Anthony had more on his mind than murder.

“Drop the fucking phone!”

He fired.

I could hear the bullet pass by my left ear and smack into the heavy oak door behind me.

He said, “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. Like my uncle. But don’t make me kill you.” He pointed the rifle at my chest and said, “Drop it.”

I dropped the phone.

He cradled the rifle in his right arm and said, “Yeah, good balls, but not much brains today, John.”

“Where is Susan?”

“She’s okay. I was saving her for when you got home.”

“Anthony-”

“Shut the fuck up.” He asked me, “Are you carrying?”

I shook my head.

“Take off your jacket.”

I took my jacket off, and he said, “Throw it down.”

I dropped it on the floor, and he said, “Okay, strip and let’s see what you got.”

I didn’t move, and he said, “Take your fucking clothes off, or I swear I’ll blow out your kneecaps.”

“Where is Susan?”

He smiled and said, “She’s naked, like you’re gonna be. Like we’re all gonna be. Come on. Strip.”

Again, I didn’t move. Anthony was about fifteen feet from me, and I couldn’t cover that distance before he got off a shot.

He pointed the rifle toward my legs, then fired two shots. I didn’t feel anything, then I realized he’d put both rounds into one of the shopping bags and fluids were leaking onto the floor.

“That was your last fucking warning. Get your clothes off. Slow.”

I took off my clothes and dropped them on the floor.

“Turn around.”

I turned around.

“Okay, pretty boy. No gun, no wire. You are totally fucked. Turn around.”

I turned facing him. My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I tried to think. What was he up to? Why wasn’t I dead? Was Susan all right? Well… I knew the answers to all that.

He was wearing a gun and holster, and he unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his gun belt and said, “Catch,” then threw them to me, but I let them hit my chest and fall to the ground.

“Put the cuffs on, asshole, or I blow your legs out from under you.” He swung the barrel of the rifle toward my legs again. “Come on, John. I don’t have all fucking night. You want to see Susan? Put the cuffs on, and we’ll go see Susan. I want you to see her.”

I lowered myself into a crouch and reached for the cuffs. I could possibly spring off from this position and get to him, but he knew that, so he took a step backwards as he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed it at me. “Now!”

I retrieved the handcuffs and snapped them loosely on my wrists.

“Okay, you’re going up the stairs on your hands and knees. Down.”

I got on the floor and started crawling toward the stairs. Anthony moved behind me, and I could hear the bolt on the front door slide shut.

I made my way up the stairs on my hands and knees, and Anthony kept his distance as he followed me. He let me know, “I have the rifle pointed right at your naked butt, and my finger is twitching on the trigger.”

I weighed my options, but there was nothing to weigh. I just wanted to see that Susan was alive – then I’d think about what to do.

Anthony also let me know, “Tony took your wife’s Lexus. I hope you don’t mind. So, you’re thinking to yourself, ‘How did this dumb wop get the drop on me?’ Right? Is that what you’re thinking, smart guy?”

The thought had crossed my mind, and I was angry at myself for being so damned stupid. But the attacker always has the advantage. His late uncle would agree with that.

“You and your wife think you’re so fucking smart. Or maybe you and your stupid wife thought I wasn’t coming after you, and you got sloppy.”

I reached the top of the stairs, and he said, “Stay on your hands and knees and move toward your bedroom.”

Anthony moved quickly past me, keeping the rifle aimed at me as he went toward the bedroom door. He stopped and watched me as I crawled down the hallway toward him.

He said, “Yeah, your dumb wife gets a call from the gatehouse, but it’s Tony calling, and he says, ‘I got a package for you, Mrs. Sutter. I’ll bring it around when I check out the property, like your husband asked me to do.’ So, you got to be careful who you talk to, John. Maybe that security guy you talked to was working for me. Right? Hey, say something. Say something smart.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not so smart. I can’t believe I was going to hire you. Look at you – buck naked on your hands and knees, with cuffs on, and you’re crawling where I tell you to crawl. So you’re really not that fucking smart. And I’m not as dumb as you thought I was – okay, stop there.”

I stopped about ten feet from the bedroom door.

He continued, “Yeah, so Tony rings the bell, she looks through the peephole, sees a guy in an All-Safe uniform, then just opens the door. How fucking dumb is that? And you should’ve been there, John, when Tony pushes her into the house, and I walk in behind him. I mean, she just stares at me, and right away she knows who I am. And then she remembers Tony from when she was fucking my father. And I say to her, ‘You killed my father, you bitch,’ and I thought she was going to piss her pants. And then she goes for this rifle in the umbrella stand, and I knock her on her ass.”

“You’re a real man.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He said, “So you keep a rifle by the door. You expectin’ trouble?” He laughed. “Does that rich bitch even know how to use a gun?” He realized that was a stupid question and said, “That bitch shot my father for no reason-”

“I told you the reason-”

“You’re a lying asshole, but I’ll get the truth out of you and her tonight.” He threw open the door, stepped aside, and said, “Go see your wife.”

I started to stand, but he shouted, “Hands and knees, asshole!”

I crawled through the bedroom doorway.

“Up on your knees.”

I got up on my knees.

Susan was lying on the bed, naked, and it took me a moment to realize that her wrists and ankles were tied to the bedposts. Then I noticed white tape over her mouth.

She turned her head toward me, and I could see fear in her eyes. But thank God she was alive.

Anthony shut the door behind me and said, “So there she is, John. You wanted to see her, and now you and me can see all of her. And I see she’s a real redhead.”

I kept staring at Susan, and she was looking at me, tears running down her face.

I stood and took a step toward her, then I felt a blow to the middle of my back, and I fell forward onto the floor. I lay there, less stunned than I pretended to be, and I tried to judge how far he was from me.

He said, “Get up.”

I could tell he’d moved away from me, so I lay motionless, hoping he’d come close enough to hit me again with the rifle butt.

Instead, he fired a round into the floor next to my face, which made me jump. He shouted, “Get up, or the next one goes up your ass!”

I lifted myself back to my knees, took a deep breath, and looked at Susan. She was pulling at her bonds, which I saw were nylon ropes, and she was crying and trying to call out. I also saw that there were red marks on her face, where he’d apparently hit her, and I saw a leather belt – one of my belts – lying on the bed.

Anthony said, “I’m going to rape your wife, and you’re going to have a front-row seat.”

“You’re a sick bastard.”

“No. I’m a nice guy. I told you, women and children get a pass. So I’m not going to kill her, but when I get through with her, she and you are gonna wish you were dead.”

I didn’t say anything, but I knew I had to make a move, even if it was a bad move. Where was the shotgun? It wasn’t where I’d left it propped against the nightstand. Maybe it was in the closet.

Anthony moved around to the far side of the bed, and he put the muzzle of the rifle to Susan’s head and said to me, “Crawl over to that radiator. Come on, asshole. Move it.”

I knew if I went to the radiator, I’d be cuffed to the pipe, and that would end any chance I had to turn this around.

Anthony picked up the leather belt on the bed, stepped back, and brought it down hard across Susan’s thighs. Her body arched, and I could hear a muffled scream through the tape.

He raised the belt again, and I shouted, “No!” I moved on my hands and knees toward the radiator under the window. I looked around the room as I crawled to the radiator and saw Susan’s robe and panties on the floor, and I also saw that the two suitcases were knocked off their luggage racks, and the clothes were strewn around the carpet. Where was the shotgun?

“Kneel next to the pipe with your back to the wall. I want you where you can get a good view.”

I knelt beside the radiator. He took another pair of handcuffs from his gun belt and flung them at me, hitting me in the face.

“Cuff yourself to the radiator.”

I hesitated, and he said, “You’re fucking with me, John. I don’t want to kill you. I want you to watch. Don’t fuck me up, and don’t fuck yourself up.”

I cuffed my left wrist to the radiator pipe and knelt, staring at him.

Anthony set the rifle on the bureau and looked at me. He said, “Okay, let the fun begin.”

He walked to the foot of the bed and looked at Susan. “Well, I can see why my father liked to fuck her. Good tits, nice ass, and great legs.”

Anthony had a script, a fantasy, and I knew he’d thought about this. And I hoped, too, that he really didn’t intend to commit a double murder.

He lit a cigarette and said to me, “So you were going to London. What’s the matter? You don’t like it here? Something here scare you?”

He drew on his cigarette and said, “Just so you know what to look forward to, John – you’re going to watch her give me a blow job, then I’m going to fuck her so hard she won’t be good for you anymore.”

When I didn’t respond, he said, “And you better watch, asshole. And when this is all over, you two will shut your fucking mouths and thank God you’re alive. But if you go to the cops, then I swear on my father’s grave, I’ll kill her, and I’ll kill your kids. No free pass for them if you go to the cops. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Okay. So you understand the rules. No one has to die. You just got to live with this so every time you fuck your wife, you can both think about me. Right?”

Again, I nodded.

“Good. And you don’t care, anyway. My father fucked her, I’m gonna fuck her, and maybe we’ll let Tony fuck her later. Right?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t hear much coming out of your wise-ass mouth now, Counselor.”

He pulled the tape off Susan’s mouth. “What do you have to say, bitch?”

She took a deep breath between her sobs and said, “Please. Just do what you want and leave us alone.”

He laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna do what I want all right.”

He threw his cigarette on the rug and ground it out with his heel. He asked me, “Why’d you slash my painting, John?”

I didn’t reply, and he said to Susan, “I liked that painting, and your husband here fucked it up. So you’re gonna paint me another one. And when you’re done, you and John are coming over to the house to give it to me and Megan. Right?”

Susan nodded. “All right.”

He smiled, then looked at me. “Okay, John? You and your wife come over for coffee. Just like the old days. And you sit there, like you did ten years ago when you knew my father was fucking your wife, except this time, it’s me who fucked your wife. And you won’t have shit to say about it.”

I nodded. It was possible, I thought, that we’d get out of this alive, and if I ever got close enough to Anthony Bellarosa to have coffee with him, then I would be close enough to put a knife in his heart.

He said, “And you’re both gonna be nice to my wife, and bring over a bottle of wine, and say, ‘This is a very nice house, Mrs. Bellarosa,’ and ‘Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Bellarosa.’”

This was Anthony’s revenge fantasy, and he’d obviously thought about this for a long time, and he was going to draw it out, to taunt us, humiliate us, and do everything he could to make sure this stayed with us long past the time he walked out the door.

And then I thought of the other painting in his den – the Rape of the Sabine Women. And now I understood – or had I always understood? – why it was there, and why Susan’s painting was also in his den.

I realized, too, that this bastard was so sure of himself that he thought he could rape Susan and smirk about it every time he saw us. And I didn’t want him to think otherwise. I said, “Just don’t hurt her.”

He smiled at me and said, “I’m going to make her feel good. Like my father did.”

Susan said to him, “Please. Just do it and leave. We won’t say anything.”

“You’re fucking right you won’t say anything.”

I saw Anthony glance at his watch, and I wondered if he was on a schedule, or if he was waiting for Tony to return.

He lit another cigarette and said to me, “When I’m done with your wife, I’m gonna call Tony, and when he gets here, we can have some real fun.”

I didn’t respond.

“Yeah. This is going to be a very long night. But it’s better than being dead.” He looked at Susan and said, “Okay, sweetheart. You waited long enough. You excited?”

Susan didn’t respond.

“Come on, tell me you’re excited.”

“I’m excited.”

He laughed, then went to Susan’s bureau and took the camera that she’d put there to pack.

He ground his cigarette out on the bureau, then examined the camera. He took three shots of Susan on the bed, then a shot of me. He threw the camera on the bed and said, “Okay, we’ll use up that roll tonight when Tony gets here. Hey, you don’t mind if I keep the film? I’ll send you copies.” He looked at me and said, “If you live. And that depends on how good she is to me. And I want you both on that plane tomorrow. Understand? I want you the fuck out of here. You’re gonna need a nice vacation after tonight.” He unbuckled his gun belt and threw it on the bureau. He kicked off his shoes, got undressed, and dropped his clothes on the floor.

As he walked toward the bed, I could see that he was aroused. He said to Susan, “How’s that look, sweetheart? You think you can take all that?”

She nodded.

I noticed that he had a pocketknife in his hand. He unclasped the knife and cut the nylon cord on Susan’s left wrist, then moved around the bed and cut the other three cords.

“Okay, bitch, out of bed.” He grabbed her hair and pulled her off the bed, then shoved her onto the floor. “You kneel right here where your husband can see you.”

Susan knelt alongside the bed, and we made eye contact. I nodded and said to her, “It’s all right.”

He smiled at me and said, “Yeah? It’s all right? Good. It’s all right with me, too.”

He put the knife under her chin and told her, “Don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you both. Understand?”

She nodded.

“All right…” He took a step closer to her and said, “Put that in your mouth.”

Susan hesitated, so he grabbed her hair again and pulled her face into his groin. He glanced at me and said, “You better fucking watch this, or I’ll beat her ass with that belt.”

I nodded.

He said to her, “Open up. That’s it… put it in there, bitch… okay… ooh, that’s nice… John? Watch her suck my cock-”

All of a sudden, he let out a scream, dropped the knife, and jumped backwards.

Susan fell face first on the floor and rolled under the bed. Anthony was holding his groin, doubled over and groaning in pain, then he dropped to the floor, stuck his head under the bed skirt, and grabbed for her.

I shouted, “Anthony, you fuck! You dumb piece of shit!” I grabbed the radiator and rocked it, trying to break the connection between the radiator and the pipe, but it held. Damn it. “Anthony!”

As I looked up, he was standing and moving quickly to the far side of the bed, screaming, “You fucking bitch! You’re dead, you fucking bitch!”

I saw Susan’s head and shoulders rising above the bed, then as Anthony came at her, she stood, and slowly and deliberately raised the shotgun to her shoulder. He was less than three feet from her when he stopped dead in his tracks and said, “What the-?”

I heard a loud blast, and I saw Susan’s right shoulder lurch back. Anthony’s whole body moved backwards, then he lost his footing and fell.

I saw Susan switch to the other barrel as she took a step toward him. She raised the shotgun to her shoulder again and pointed the barrels at his face.

“Susan!”

She looked at me.

“No. Don’t.”

She looked back at Anthony, who I could see was still moving, and he raised his right arm in a protective gesture.

“Susan! Find the keys to these cuffs. Quick!”

She took another look at Anthony, then threw the shotgun on the bed and found the keys in Anthony’s pants pocket.

She knelt beside me, but we didn’t speak as she unlocked the cuffs. I stood quickly and went to the door and locked it. I looked at Anthony again, who was still very much alive, his hands over his chest, and his body rocking from side to side.

I took Susan in my arms. She was trembling, and I said, “Just sit here…” I moved her toward a chair and sat her down. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, and stared at Anthony.

I walked across the floor to Anthony and stood over him. Our eyes met. Then I looked at where he was holding both hands over the wound on the right side of his chest, and I saw blood seeping between his fingers. I’d expected to see his chest peppered with buckshot, but Susan had used the barrel with the deer slug. I looked at the wall behind where he had been standing, and I saw the bullet hole in the pale blue wallpaper.

I looked back at Anthony and again our eyes met. I said to him, “You brought this on yourself.”

His lips moved and a wheezing sound came out of his mouth. I heard him whisper, “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you.”

I could see now that the blood coming through his fingers was mixed with red froth, meaning it was a lung wound. Not good, but he could live… if he got to a hospital. I noticed, too, that there was blood on his penis, which was the least of his problems.

I went back to Susan, who was still sitting, staring at Anthony. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, never taking her eyes off Anthony.

I took her robe and panties off the floor and gave them to her. I said, “I’m going to call the police.”

She grabbed my arm. “No.”

“Susan. He needs an ambulance.”

“No! Not this time.”

I looked at her, then I said, “All right… get dressed.”

I helped her up, and she slipped on her robe, then walked toward her closet. On the way, she stopped and looked down at Anthony.

I could hear him try to say something, then Susan knelt beside him and put her head down close to him and listened. She shook her head and said to him, “No ambulance. You’re going to die.”

He grabbed at her, and she knocked his arm away, then stood and went into the closet.

I walked into my closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then I went back to Anthony and knelt beside him. His breathing was becoming more labored, and I could hear a wheezing sound coming from the hole in his chest. Also, the blood from the exit wound was soaking the carpet around him, and there was dark blood coming out of his mouth, which was not a good sign – at least not for him.

To treat a sucking chest wound you seal the entry and exit holes to keep the air in the lung from escaping, and you wrap the chest wound tightly to slow the bleeding. But did I want to do that?

Susan came out of the closet dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She glanced at Anthony and saw he was still breathing.

I took the roll of film out of the camera, then I gathered the carbine, the shotgun, and Anthony’s gun belt with the holster and the pistol. I took Susan’s arm, unlocked the door, and led her out of the room and down the stairs.

We went into the office, and I threw the weapons on the couch, then I sat her in the club chair. I went to the bar and poured each of us a brandy.

She took a long drink, and I did, too, then I sat at the desk and picked up the phone.

“John. Don’t.”

I ignored her and dialed 9-1- 1. A female operator answered, and I said, “I want to report a home invasion, an attempted rape, and a shooting.”

I gave the operator the location, then I gave her some details of the incident as police and emergency service vehicles were being dispatched.

The operator said, “About five minutes.”

I told her about the iron gates that might need to be forced open, and she asked me, “Do you think there are any other perpetrators on the premises?”

I replied, “There was, but I think he’s gone and waiting for a call from the assailant.”

“Okay, sir, you just sit tight there with your wife, and please secure any firearms.”

I thanked her and hung up. I said to Susan, “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

She looked at me and asked, “Will he be dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I aimed for his heart. But he moved.”

I had no comment on that, but I did say, “You’re very brave, and very smart.”

She took another sip of brandy and said, “I wasn’t too smart when I opened the door.”

“I probably would have done the same thing.”

She didn’t reply, but I saw she was looking at the shotgun on the couch.

She said to me, “We should check on him. Before the police arrive.”

I thought, of course, about Frank Bellarosa, lying on the floor in Giulio’s, his carotid artery spurting blood. Stop the bleeding. That was rule one of basic first aid. So I stopped the bleeding. He lived, and here we were, ten years later, dealing with the consequences.

Susan stood and walked toward the shotgun on the couch.

“Susan.”

She looked at me and said, “Before you got here… he said to me – you and your husband think you’re so fucking smart, so fucking above-”

“I know what he said.”

“So fucking high and mighty… well, he said, when I get through with you, you’re never going to be the same again… and your fucking husband is never going to look at you the same again… and you can live with that, bitch, the way I live with thinking about you killing my father…” She picked up the shotgun and said, “And he told me I might like it so much, I might want to do it with him again.”

I stood and moved between her and the door. I said, “You can’t do that. I won’t let you.”

She stared at me, the shotgun cradled in her arm, then said, “I am so sorry, John, for everything that has happened to us.”

“That subject is closed.”

“Are you sorry you saved Frank’s life?”

I was, and I wasn’t. I said to her, “I did the right thing.”

“It was the wrong thing.”

I looked at her and asked, “Did you think so at the time?”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “No. But afterwards… I wished you’d let him die. And now… we’re not going to make that same mistake.”

I put out my hand and said, “Give me the gun.”

She pushed the shotgun toward me and said, “He threatened our children. So you take care of it.”

I hesitated, then took the shotgun from her. We made eye contact, and she said, “Do this for Edward and Carolyn.”

I’d thought about killing Anthony, and I would have without a second thought when he was a threat to us. But killing a wounded man in cold blood was not the same. And yet… if he lived… there would be an investigation, a public trial, testimony about what happened here… and there’d always be that threat hanging over us… but if he was dead… well, dead was dead. Dead was simple.

I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll check on him.”

I carried the shotgun into the foyer and up the staircase, then stopped at our bedroom door. I checked to see that the selector switch was set to the left barrel – the one that held the heavy-load buckshot, then I opened the door.

I could see him on the floor, and his chest was still heaving.

I moved closer, then I knelt beside him.

His arms were at his sides now, and the blood coming out of his wound had slowed and was no longer frothy with air.

I looked at his face, which was so white that the stubble on his cheeks looked like black paint. I felt his pulse, then his heart, which was beating very rapidly to compensate for the loss of blood pressure.

I leaned closer to him and said, “Anthony.”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Anthony!” I slapped his face, and his eyes opened.

We looked at each other. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear anything except a gurgling sound.

I said to him, “When you get to hell, and you see your father, tell him how you got there, and tell him who shot you. And ask your father for the truth about him leaving his family for Susan. Anthony?” I slapped him again and said, “Can you hear me?”

His eyes still had some life in them, but I didn’t know if he could hear me over the sound of the rushing in his ears, which happens when the heart is trying to pump the last of the blood through the veins and arteries.

I said loudly, “And tell your father thanks for doing me that last favor.”

His eyelids fluttered again, and I knew he’d heard me.

I kept staring at him. His eyes were wide open now, and they followed my movements, and I had the thought that he might live.

Susan came into the room, and she looked at me, then at him, but she didn’t say anything.

I could hear the sound of police sirens outside, and I said to her, “Go and unbolt the door for them. Quickly.”

“John, you have to do it, or I’ll do it.”

“Go. I’ll take care of it.”

She looked again at me, then at Anthony, then turned and left.

I stared at Anthony, who was showing too many signs of life… and it was too late now with the police outside to fire the shotgun.

I noticed that his blood had coagulated over his wound, and it was seeping, rather than flowing freely. Stop the bleeding… Start the bleeding.

I knelt on his chest, and his eyes opened wide in terror. I stuck my index finger into his wound, pushing down as far as I could into his warm chest cavity, and when I withdrew my finger, his blood gushed up and began flowing again.

I kept my full weight on his chest, which heaved convulsively, then stopped.

I stood, went into the bathroom, washed my hands, and threw the shotgun back on the bed.

When I went downstairs, Susan was standing at the open door. In the forecourt were two police cars and uniformed officers were moving quickly toward the house.

I put my arm around her shoulder and said, “It’s finished.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

The police searched and secured the premises and determined that there were no other perpetrators present.

The EMS people, who carried a stretcher upstairs, didn’t carry it downstairs, and a uniformed officer told me, “He’s dead.” The medical examiner, when he arrived, would make that official.

The police had tagged the weapons as evidence, and the crime scene investigators were on the way to begin the slow, arduous process of turning the scene of a violent personal assault into a neat scientific project.

While this was going on, a homicide detective by the name of Steve Jones had requisitioned our home office to conduct an interview with me while Susan was taken by EMS vehicle to the sexual assault unit at North Shore University Hospital.

I wasn’t happy that I hadn’t been allowed to accompany Susan to the hospital, but Detective Jones explained that this was standard operating procedure, to wit: In cases involving serious felonies, witnesses are separated. Well, one size does not fit all, and even though we were witnesses, and even though Susan killed the alleged assailant, we were also obviously crime victims, so I said to Detective Jones, “We will, of course, cooperate fully, but I have to insist that I be present when you interview Mrs. Sutter.” I further explained, “I am an attorney, and I am also her attorney.” I suggested, “It might be a good idea to call Detective Nastasi in the Second Precinct, who took our original complaint about threats that the assailant made against us.”

Detective Jones considered all that, then left the office to consult with his Homicide Squad supervisor and an assistant district attorney from their Homicide Unit, both of whom had recently arrived. This was, of course, a high-profile case, so Detective Jones, who, I’m certain, usually ran his own investigation, now had to share his duties and power with higher-ups who’d taken over the living room.

Bottom line on this, when a society lady kills a Mafia don – on her estate or his – the case takes on another dimension, and everyone wants in on it. I remembered this from the last time it happened.

Detective Jones returned and informed me, “Detective Nastasi is on the way.” In response to my other request, he said, “We have no objection to you being present when I interview Mrs. Sutter.”

“Thank you.”

Detective Jones then said to me, “As an attorney, you understand that you are a witness to a homicide and possibly more than a witness, so before I take your statement, I need to read you your rights.” He added, “As a formality.”

I wasn’t completely surprised by this, but I was getting annoyed. On the other hand, there was a corpse lying in my bedroom, and Detective Jones needed to be sure he was dealing with a justifiable homicide. Actually, he wasn’t – I mean, Susan shooting Anthony was borderline justifiable, but me speeding up his death was called murder. I said, “Let me save you the trouble.” Then, from memory, I advised myself of my rights.

Detective Jones seemed satisfied with that and didn’t ask me if I understood what I just said to myself.

Before I began my statement, I told Detective Jones that the deceased perpetrator, Anthony Bellarosa by name, had identified his accomplice to me as Tony Rosini, a man who I said was known to me.

Detective Jones passed this on to another detective, then informed me, “I was one of the detectives who responded to the other Bellarosa homicide ten years ago.”

I wasn’t quite sure why he mentioned that, but I was still annoyed that Susan and I had been separated, so I replied, “Has it been ten years between Bellarosa murders?”

He ignored my sarcasm, and I began my statement. Detective Jones wrote it all out longhand on lined paper, though of course I could have typed it on the computer or written it myself. But this is the way it’s always been done, so why introduce new technology?

I neglected to mention in my statement that I knelt on the assailant’s chest and reopened his wound to make sure he died before the EMS arrived. I mean, Detective Jones didn’t ask, so why should I volunteer?

All this took over an hour, and after I read my statement, I signed it, as did Detective Jones and another detective, who witnessed my signature.

I saw a police car pull into the forecourt and a uniformed officer escorted Susan to the front door. Detective Jones went to the door and accompanied Susan into the office.

We hugged, and she said, “I’m all right. They gave me some sedatives and painkillers and asked me to return tomorrow for a follow-up visit – but I think I’ll see my own physician instead.”

We were joined in the office by Detective Jones’s supervisor, Lieutenant Kennedy, and also by an assistant district attorney, a young lady named Christine Donnelly, who reminded me of Carolyn. To help put everyone in the right frame of mind at this critical juncture in the investigation, I said, “Our daughter Carolyn is an ADA in Brooklyn.”

Ms. Donnelly smiled at that news and commented, “It’s not easy working for Joe Hynes, but she’ll learn a lot.”

There is, as I knew, an amazing fraternity of law enforcement people, and you should never miss an opportunity to tell a cop or an ADA that your favorite uncle is a cop in the South Bronx – or someplace – and that your daughter, niece, or nephew works for some attorney general somewhere – even if you have to make it up.

Anyway, it was Detective Jones’s case – he’d caught the squeal, as they say – and he began by inquiring of Susan if she was feeling well and so forth.

Then he read her her rights and asked her to give a statement regarding what happened this evening. As she began, Detective Jones began writing on his lined paper.

I understood that it was best if I didn’t say anything, though of course I could have advised my client if I thought she was making an incriminating statement, such as, “I told John to go back upstairs and take care of him.” Then Detective Jones might inquire, “What did you mean by ‘take care of him’?”

Of course, we were not officially suspects in a homicide, but someone was dead, so Susan and I needed to be careful of what we said.

I’d already told Susan, before the first detective arrived, to state unequivocally that she believed our lives were in danger and that was why she’d shot a man who was not actually armed at the moment she shot him. I further advised her, as her attorney, to state that the perpetrator had ignored her command to stop and put up his hands and that he lunged at her.

This was no small technicality, unfortunately, and I didn’t want the grand jury to have any doubts. The reality, of course, was that Susan was aiming for his heart, then wanted to finish off Anthony with a shotgun blast to the face. I certainly understood why she’d want to do that, but I wasn’t sure if the police or the district attorney would understand – especially considering her unjustifiable murder of the alleged assailant’s father.

Bottom line here was that Susan Stanhope, nice lady that she was, had another side to her personality, which she’d shown ten years ago and which, I hoped, would not show itself again for a while.

As Susan related her story, Ms. Donnelly jotted a few notes and so did the Homicide Squad supervisor, Lieutenant Kennedy, but they let Susan do all the talking.

Susan reached the point in her story when Anthony Bellarosa and Tony Rosini literally dragged her up the stairs and into the bedroom, pulled off her robe and panties, and tied her to the bedposts.

I could see that Ms. Donnelly, too young to be hardened yet by stories of human depravity, was visibly upset. I thought of Carolyn and wondered what a few more years in the Brooklyn DA’s office would do to her.

Susan, too, was becoming upset at this point in her story, but she took a deep breath and pushed on. She said, “Bellarosa tied me facedown on the bed, then used a belt – I think John’s belt – to beat me on the buttocks…”

I stood and said, “I haven’t heard this, and I don’t need to. Please let me know when Mrs. Sutter comes to the point where I enter the bedroom.”

I left the office and went outside for some air. By now, there were a half dozen police cars in the forecourt and a number of crime scene vehicles, but the ambulance was gone, and I assumed that they’d taken Anthony’s body to the morgue. Well, I thought, if they didn’t take too long with the autopsy, then Anthony and Uncle Sal could be waked together, maybe in the same funeral home in Brooklyn where Frank had reposed. And then – if the Brooklyn Diocese had no objections – they’d have a double funeral Mass at Santa Lucia, and a double burial in the church cemetery. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Or at least convenient for friends and family. In any case, I’d skip those funerals.

A uniformed officer found me and escorted me back into the office.

Susan picked up her story by saying, “I was hoping that John figured out that something was wrong and that he’d called the police… but then I heard Anthony’s voice in the hall and another voice, and when I realized it was John, my heart sank…”

I sat and listened to Susan describing from her perspective what happened in the bedroom. Her story and mine differed only in regard to what she was thinking. She stated, for instance, “As I said before, Bellarosa told me that the first thing that would happen when John got there was that he was going to make me kneel on the floor and give him… oral sex. So I knew I could… bite him and he’d be in such pain that I could roll under the bed and retrieve the shotgun that I’d put there.” She let everyone know, “He made John handcuff himself to the radiator, but he didn’t think I was a threat to him.”

Well, I’ll bet Anthony rethought that when Susan blew a hole through his chest.

Susan finished her statement by saying, “He said he was going to kill us, and I knew our lives were in danger. So when I retrieved the shotgun and told him to freeze and put his hands up, he yelled at me, ‘You’re dead, you bitch!’ Then he lunged at me and grabbed for the barrel of the shotgun.” She remembered to add, “I had no choice except to pull the trigger.”

Detective Jones, Lieutenant Kennedy, and Ms. Donnelly glanced at one another, then Detective Jones said to Susan, “Thank you.” He asked her to read her statement, which she did, then she signed it as did Detective Jones and Lieutenant Kennedy. Lieutenant Kennedy and Ms. Donnelly then excused themselves, but I stayed with Susan and Detective Jones, who asked Susan a few questions.

As Susan replied, I called her travel agent and left a message canceling our trip. Also, we weren’t able to stay in our house, which had become a crime scene, as well as a place that suddenly had bad memories attached, so I called The Creek and booked us a cottage with a late arrival.

Detective Jones then excused himself, leaving us alone in the office.

I asked Susan, “How are you doing?”

She shrugged and replied, “Tired and drained. But… I’m feeling this post-traumatic euphoria that the nurse at the hospital said I might experience.”

“I understand.” I also understood that the euphoria would wear off and that both of us had some tough times ahead. But having to deal with the investigation of what happened was ironically keeping our minds off what happened.

Detective A. J. Nastasi came into the office, and we exchanged greetings. He expressed his regrets, then he said to us, “I’ve been assigned to assist the Homicide Squad in this case.”

I nodded. It was remarkable, I thought, how quickly this case had gone from us swearing out a threat complaint against Anthony Bellarosa to homicide. But if we all really thought about it, it was inevitable that this would end with a death – though I was never sure whose death.

Detective Nastasi said, “I have some information that may interest you, if you’re up to it.”

We both nodded.

He informed us, “The All-Safe Security guard on duty here has disappeared, so we think he had a part-time job with Bell Security.” He added, “This guard probably provided Bellarosa and Rosini with the uniforms and also kept Bellarosa – or someone close to him – informed of your movements.”

I nodded. I knew this was an inside job.

Detective Nastasi continued, “Everyone assumed that Bellarosa was out of town, but we found a card key in his wallet from a motel in Queens, and the NYPD checked it out, and he’s been there for the last week under an assumed name.” He added, “We found a Chevy Capri parked near his house – one of about twenty cars that are leased by Bell Enterprises – and we’re assuming this was the car he used this week.”

I nodded again. The best place to hide is under everyone’s nose. Anthony Bellarosa, as I said, was not the brightest guy on the planet, but like all predators, he could easily adapt his hunting skills to outwit people who were hunting him. And then, of course, he turned and became the hunter again.

Detective Nastasi further informed us, “It appears, too, that the Bell Security guard at Alhambra Estates let Bellarosa know that there was no police stakeout at his house, and Anthony drove into Alhambra Estates, parked his car a few hundred yards from his house, then we think he walked through his own property, probably with Tony Rosini, and kept going until he got here.”

I recalled the aerial view of the property that I’d seen on the Web site. I’d always known this was a possibility, though I’d hoped that the perimeter security for Stanhope Hall would be in place by the time we returned from Europe. Regardless, Anthony Bellarosa would have found his way to Susan, sometime, someplace.

Detective Nastasi said, “As for Tony Rosini, we picked him up at the Bellarosa residence – he apparently has a room there in the basement – and he said he was there waiting for his boss to call for a pickup. That’s all he knows.” Nastasi added, “As of now, he’s being held as an accessory to a number of felonies.” He said to Susan, “Early tomorrow, you’ll need to identify him in a lineup as the man who accompanied Anthony Bella-rosa. Then we can charge him.”

Susan nodded.

Detective Nastasi let us know, “The fact that the alleged perpetrator has died will make this investigation and the resolution of this case a little simpler and faster than if he’d survived.”

True. Dead thugs tell no tales, and they can’t make statements to the press or to the police that contradicted statements made by their victims. Most importantly, Anthony was not coming back.

Nastasi asked us, “Do you have any questions about what is happening or what will happen with this case?”

Susan asked him, “How long will you need us to be available?”

He replied, “A month or two, although that’s not my decision to make.”

Susan informed him, “We’re getting married the second Saturday in August, then we’re going on a honeymoon.”

He nodded and said, “Congratulations.” He added, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“No, it won’t be.” Lady Stanhope then inquired, “Where is my car?”

He replied, “It hasn’t turned up, but I guess Rosini knows where it is. When we find it, we’ll need to hold it until the crime lab is through with it.”

She nodded, then asked, “When can we return to our house?”

“In a day or so.”

I didn’t think Susan actually wanted to return so soon, but if or when we did, we both knew it would be temporary. After we survived the media circus, and got through the criminal investigation, we would sell the guest cottage to Amir Nasim and go someplace else. Where, I didn’t know – maybe we’d throw a dart at a map of the world.

Detective Nastasi broke into my thoughts and said to Susan, “I believe that the grand jury will come back with a finding of justifiable homicide. So don’t worry about that.” He suggested, “Find a place to stay tonight, keep in touch, and tomorrow morning we’ll do that lineup.” He concluded, “Detective Jones says we don’t need you here any longer.”

We thanked him, shook hands, and another detective escorted us to our bedroom, which was still filled with crime scene investigators. A photographer was taking pictures of the blood and of Anthony’s chalk outline on the carpet.

We packed a few items in overnight bags and went back downstairs.

I was surprised to see FBI Special Agent Felix Mancuso waiting for us in the foyer, and it was an awkward moment. He first inquired of Susan how she was doing, and she replied, “I’m all right.”

He got right to the point and said, “Well, I feel as though I’d misled you regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts and his intentions.” He added, “I never believed he’d do this himself.”

I replied, “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Mancuso. We all made some educated guesses, and some of them were wrong.” I added, “We appreciate what you did, and your personal interest in this matter.”

“That’s very kind of you.” But I could see that he was still vexed, and he admitted, “I wasn’t understanding Anthony Bellarosa… I didn’t understand how driven he was by hate… and by this ancient concept of blood for blood.” He added, “We don’t see much of that anymore in our nice, civilized society, but I’m seeing it in my new job.”

I could have told Felix Mancuso that the veneer of civilization was, indeed, very thin, but he knew that, and yet, like all of us, he was constantly surprised when the old Beast reared its ugly head. I said to him, “We’re staying at Susan’s club tonight, and we’re exhausted.”

“Understandably so. Let me walk you out.”

We walked out to the forecourt. The night was clear and balmy, and there were a million stars overhead.

Mr. Mancuso said to Susan, “I hear from Detective Jones that you were very smart and very brave.”

Susan, forgetting or ignoring what I told her about justifiable homicide, replied, “I was very stupid. He wasn’t going to kill us. He said that about six times. This was not blood for blood. He wanted to humiliate us and to make our lives hell.” She took a deep breath and said to him, but really to me, “I could have just let him rape me, and it would have been over. But I risked my life, and John’s life, to kill him.”

That, as Mr. Mancuso and I both knew, was an incriminating statement, but he liked us and he felt some responsibility for what had happened, so he said, “I’m sure you did believe that your life was in danger, Mrs. Sutter, and you did the right thing by shooting him.”

Susan, still wanting to get this off her chest, said, “If he’d wanted to kill me for what I did to his father, I would understand that… an eye for an eye… but… he wanted to kill our souls, and I could not allow that.”

Mr. Mancuso thought about that, then said, “I understand, but… well… maybe I would have done the same thing.”

He walked us to the Taurus and said, “By the way, the medical examiner told me that Bellarosa was still alive when the EMS arrived, but before they could administer any emergency care, he died.”

I exercised my right to remain silent on that subject.

Mr. Mancuso continued, “It appears… well, the ME said that it looked like the wound had clotted, but… the clot in his chest somehow broke, and he re-bled. Hemorrhaged.” He looked at me and asked, “So… I was wondering if you’d tried to administer any first aid – as you did with Frank Bellarosa – and if perhaps you’d inadvertently caused a re-bleed?”

Mr. Mancuso, I assumed, was tipping me off that there could be some questions later regarding the medical examiner’s report on the cause of death. I mentally thanked him for this and replied, “I did what I had to do.” I clarified that and said, “I called 9-1- 1.”

So we left it there, and if Mr. Mancuso thought I’d intervened to speed up Anthony Bellarosa’s death, he didn’t say it. I did, however, hope that he understood it.

There didn’t seem to be anything more to say on these subjects, so we all shook hands, and Susan and I got into the car and drove down the long, dark driveway.

The gatehouse was lit, and there were police cars outside the door and news vans on the street. The gates were open, and I drove through them, out of Stanhope Hall, and onto Grace Lane.

We did not return to Stanhope Hall, but spent a week in the cottage at The Creek, speaking to friends and family by phone, but not meeting with anyone. We also made ourselves available to Detective Jones for some follow-up questions. Susan had no trouble identifying Tony Rosini, whom she’d known ten years ago, and he was charged with a number of Class A felonies, including kidnapping, that would put him in prison for a period that could be measured in geological time.

Detective Jones had questioned me about the medical examiner’s autopsy report – specifically, regarding if I knew how Anthony Bellarosa’s wound, which had clotted so nicely, had reopened, leaving pieces of the clot around the wound and other pieces embedded deep in the wound. He said, “As if someone had shoved something into the wound.”

I found that hard to believe, or even to understand, and replied, “I have no medical training – except some basic first aid in the Army – so I can’t answer that question.”

He didn’t seem entirely satisfied with my reply, but he did say, “I think the grand jury will return a verdict of justifiable homicide.”

To which I replied, “What else could they possibly conclude?”

After a week at The Creek, I booked us at Gurney’s Inn in Montauk Point.

On our first night there, we walked along the beach, east toward the Montauk Point Lighthouse in the distance. There weren’t many people on the beach at midnight, but a group of young people had built a driftwood fire in the sand, and a few hardy fishermen were out in the surf, casting for bluefish.

The moon was in the southwestern sky, and a wide river of moonlight illuminated the ocean and cast a silvery glow across the beach. There was a nice sea breeze skimming across the water, kicking up whitecaps and carrying with it the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf against the shore.

Susan and I held hands and walked barefoot over the white sand, not saying anything, just listening to the sea.

We climbed a small sand dune and sat facing the ocean. Out on the horizon, I could see the lights of cargo ships and tankers, looking like small cities floating on the water.

We sat there for a long time, then Susan asked me, “Are we still getting married?”

“Am I still getting my yacht?”

She smiled and said, “Of course. After our wedding, we’ll sail to England with the children and clean out your flat. Then… we’ll send Edward and Carolyn home by plane.”

“Then what?”

“Can we sail around the world together?”

“We can.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I said to her, “It’s a transformative experience.”

“Good. I need to be transformed.” She put her arm around me and asked, “Where do you want to live for the rest of our lives?”

“I think we’ll know the place when we see it.”

“You’ll love Hilton Head.”

I smiled and replied, “I just might.” Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I asked her, “Will you miss New York? Stanhope Hall?”

“I suppose I will – it’s part of me. But we both have good memories of where we grew up, fell in love, got married, raised our children, and… our life together. And when we come here to visit, we can think of ourselves as time travelers who’ve gone back to a wonderful time and place in our lives, and we’ll make believe we’re young again and that we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

“Well, we are young, and we do have our whole lives ahead of us.”

She hugged me tight and said, “It’s wonderful to have you back.”

I looked at the Montauk Lighthouse and remembered when I’d sailed away from here ten years ago. I had no idea where I was going, or if I was ever coming back. And it didn’t matter – because in my mind, and in my heart, Susan had been with me every day at sea. I spoke to her often, and I believed, wherever she was, she knew I was thinking of her.

I showed her the world, in my mind, and we watched the stars together, weathered bad storms together, and sailed into safe harbors together – we even walked the streets of London together. She’d never really left my side for ten years, so this was not a reunion, because we had never been apart, and this voyage we were about to take would be our second together.

And if Fate had already decided that we would not return from the sea, then that was all right. Every journey has to end, and the end of the journey is always called Home.