The Gate House (23 page)

I smiled in return.

She continued, “Well, listen to me—the daughter of estate workers. But, you know . . . I was brought up around the gentry, and I had a very good education, and I feel like part of the old, vanished world.”

“You are.”

“Yes, but I’m from the other part of that world, and now I’m a shopkeeper.”

“Shop owner.”

“Thank you, sir. In fact, three successful shops. And I did marry well. I mean, socially. Next time, I’ll marry for love.”

“Don’t do anything silly.”

She smiled, then said, “Well, at least my children are Corbets, and they’ve been well educated.”

I said to her, “You know, I lived in England for seven years, and I saw the best and worst of the old class system. In the end, what matters is character.”

“That, Mr. Sutter, sounds like bullshit.”

I smiled. “Well, it is. But it sounds good.”

“And easy for you to say.”

“I wasn’t born rich,” I said.

“But you were born into two illustrious old families. Whitmans and Sutters. All or most of whom were college educated, and none of whom were gatekeepers, shopkeepers, or servants.”

That was true, but as far as I knew, none of them had been filthy rich like the Stanhopes. Great Uncle Walt was famous, but poetry didn’t pay that well.

As for the Sutters, they’d come over on the ship after the
Mayflower
, and they’d been missing the boat ever since, at least in regard to money.

Regarding the Stanhopes, Susan’s great-great-grandfather, Cyrus, had made the family fortune in coal mines and built Stanhope Hall at the turn of the last century. The Whitmans and Sutters, however, would consider the Stanhopes to be ostentatious, mercenary, and perhaps not very intellectual. And as my mother liked to point out, the Stanhopes were totally devoid of social conscience.

Balzac said, “Behind every great fortune is a crime.” But in the case of the Stanhopes, what was behind their fortune was dumb luck. And they’d kept most of it through greed, stinginess, and tax loopholes. And on that subject, although I did a lot of free legal work for cheap Willie, I never did tax work for him, or I’d probably be in jail now.

Nevertheless, in Elizabeth’s eyes, we were all lumped together, and we’d all been highborn and blessed by fate and fortune.

To try to set the record straight, I informed her, “I happen to know that my distant ancestors were farmers and fishermen, and one of them, Elijah Sutter, was hanged for horse stealing.”

“I won’t tell.”

I further informed her, “By the way, I’m broke.”

She said, “Well, it’s been nice knowing you.”

I smiled, then suggested, “Can we change the subject?”

“Good idea. But let me just say, John, that I think you’d still be happy here if you stayed.”

“I can be happy anywhere where there’s a country club, a polo field, a yacht club, and two-hundred-acre zoning.”

She smiled and observed, “You can take the boy out of the Gold Coast, but you can’t take the Gold Coast out of the boy.”

“Well said.” I tried a piece of Gouda. “Tastes better this morning.”

She said to me, “Tell me about your sail around the world.”

“There’s a lot to tell.”

“Did you have a woman in every port?”

“No. Only in Western Europe, Southeast Asia, the Caribbean, and French Polynesia.”

“Very funny. Well, tell me another time.”

“How about you?”

“Me? Well . . . I’ve been dating for the last two years.” She added, “Nothing serious, and I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

Dating. Seeing. Women, I’ve discovered, have more euphemisms for fucking than Eskimos have words for snow. And they rarely use a masculine noun or pronoun when describing their love life. I’m dating someone, I’m seeing someone, I’ve met someone, I’m involved with someone, I’m serious about someone, I’m not serious about the person I’m seeing, and I date other people, and on and on. Whereas a guy will just ask another guy, “You fuckin’ anybody?”

Elizabeth interrupted my mental riff and asked, “Are we supposed to have this conversation before or after sex?”

“Before is good. So there aren’t any misunderstandings.” I added, “I’m . . . seeing someone in London.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, then asked, “Is it serious?”

Serious to me usually describes a medical condition, like a brain tumor, but I think I know what serious means in this context, so I answered, honestly, “She thinks so. I do not.”

“All right.”

So we left it there.

To be truthful, this breakfast conversation was not going as well as I thought it would, and just as I was starting to have second thoughts about Elizabeth, she displayed the astuteness that I’d noticed before and said, “By now, you are subtracting points. First, I raise the class issue, and you think I’ve inherited the Red gene from my mother, then I pry into your love life, and we haven’t even had sex, and . . . what else?”

“Breakfast sucks.”

“That’s your fault, not mine.”

“True. Look—”

“Do you know how to shop for food?”

“Of course I do. I’ve provisioned my ship from native food stalls all over the world.”

“What did you do in London?”

“In London, I called Curry in a Hurry. Or ate out.”

“I’ll do some food shopping for you.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“That would be nice.” She stayed silent awhile, then said to me, “I think Susan wants you back.”

I didn’t reply.

Elizabeth pushed on. “I think she wanted me to tell you that. So, I’m telling you.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like my opinion on that?”

“No. I have my own opinion.”

“All right.” She stood and said, “I’m going home, then to church, then to visit Mom. Church is at eleven, if you’d like to meet me there. Or you can meet me at Fair Haven. And if you’re not busy this afternoon, I’ll buy you brunch.”

I stood and said, “I’d like to spend the day with you, but . . . I don’t want to run into Susan at church, or at Fair Haven.”

“I understand.”

As for the brunch invitation, I surprised myself by saying, “I have a Sunday dinner date at four.” I thought I owed Elizabeth an explanation and I said, “The same business guy I had dinner with last week, and his family.”

“All right . . . I hope it works out.”

“Can I meet you at about seven?”

“Call me.”

“I will.” I smiled and asked, “Can I help you get dressed?”

She smiled in return and said, “You didn’t even help me get undressed.” She said, “I want you to stay right here and not tempt me now. I’ll let myself out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” We embraced and kissed, and one thing led to another, and somehow her robe got undone, and we were about two seconds from doing it on the table, but she backed off, took a breath, and said, “Later. Tonight.”

“Okay . . . tonight.”

She tied her robe, turned and walked toward the door, then looked back at me and said, “You need to resolve things with Susan, sooner rather than later.”

“I know that.”

She went through the screen door, and I stood there, wanting to follow, but knowing I shouldn’t.

I poured another cup of coffee and took a walk through Ethel’s garden, which was overgrown with weeds that were choking out the vegetables. Why don’t vegetables choke out weeds?

Anyway, I did some mental weeding. First, I liked Elizabeth Allard. Second, I had to take charge of events before they took charge of me. And that meant seeing Susan—not tomorrow, or the next day, but this morning. Then the visit to the Bellarosa house would have some purpose, and some resolution.

And then, tonight, I could sleep with Elizabeth—or sleep alone, but very soundly for the first time in two weeks.

PART II

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose garden.

— T. S. Eliot “Burnt Norton,” from
Four Quartets

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John?”

“Hello, Susan.”

Silence.

I inquired, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are
you
?”

“Fine. Good. How are you doing?”

“Still fine.”

“Right . . . me, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how is Elizabeth?”

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

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

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

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

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

Silence.

I said, “Goodbye,” and hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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