Authors: Nelson DeMille
I think I know what Ms. Post would say: “Dear COLI, No. P.S. What happened to the ex-wife down the road? P.P.S. You are headed for trouble, buddy.”
Anyway, I took the framed photo portrait off the wall above the fireplace and noticed how dingy the wallpaper around it was. A new decorating project for Mrs. Nasim.
I carried the portrait outside to where Elizabeth had parked her SUV next to my Taurus, and I saw that it was a BMW, which suggested some degree of business success, or a good divorce attorney. I also saw a garment bag hanging in the rear, and I guessed that was Elizabeth’s dinner clothing for tonight.
I opened the cargo compartment and set the portrait facedown, noticing on the paper backing some handwriting. I pulled the portrait toward me and read the words, written with a fountain pen, in what looked like Ethel’s hand:
George Henry Allard and Ethel Hope Purvis, married June 13, 1942, St. Mark’s, Locust Valley, Long Island
.
And under that, in the same feminine hand,
Come home safe, my darling
.
And beneath that, in George’s hand, which I also recognized,
My sweet wife, I will count the days until we are together again
.
I slid the portrait forward and closed the tailgate. Well, I thought, hopefully, they’ll be together again soon.
I thought, too, perhaps cynically, that all marriages start with hope and optimism, love and yearning, but the years take their toll. And in this case, by August of 1943, fourteen months after these words of love and devotion were written, Ethel had succumbed to loneliness, or lust, or had been seduced by money and power—or, recalling that scene ten years ago at the cemetery when Ethel had disappeared from George’s grave and I’d found her at Augustus’ grave—quite possibly she’d actually fallen in love with Augustus Stanhope. Or all of the above.
In any case, Ethel and George had worked it out and spent the next half century together, happily, I think, living in this little house together, raising their daughter, and doing increasingly lighter work on the grand estate whose walls and lonely acres kept the encroaching world away, and kept them, in some mysterious way, a forever-young estate couple who’d met here, fallen in love, married, and never left home.
As I was walking toward the garden path that ran between the gatehouse and the wall, I heard a vehicle crunching the gravel behind me. I turned to see a white Lexus SUV heading toward the open gates, driven by Susan Stanhope Sutter.
The Lexus slowed, and we made eye contact. She’d seen the BMW, of course, and may have known to whom it belonged, but even if she didn’t, she knew I had company of some sort.
It’s awkward making eye contact with the former love of your life, into whose eyes you no longer wish to look, and I didn’t know what to do. Wave? Blow a kiss? Flip the bird? Ms. Post? Help me.
It was Susan who waved, almost perfunctorily, then she accelerated through the gates, making a hard, tire-screeching right onto Grace Lane.
I noticed that my mood had darkened. Why does Susan Sutter still have the power to affect my frame of mind?
I needed to answer that question honestly, before I could move on.
E
lizabeth and I filled her BMW with her parents’ personal items that she wanted to take that night, such as photo albums, the family Bible, and other odds and ends that were priceless and irreplaceable. We piled the rest of the personal property, including George’s naval uniforms and Ethel’s wedding gown, into the foyer to be moved another day.
It was very sad for Elizabeth, of course, and I, too, found myself thinking about life and death, and the things we leave behind.
On one of our trips to her vehicle, she retrieved her garment bag and a makeup case and took them up to her mother’s room.
By the time the cuckoo clock struck six, Elizabeth was sitting in her mother’s rocker in the living room, and I was sitting in George’s wingback chair across from her. On the coffee table was the three-page inventory list, most of the items now checked. Also on the table were two mismatched wineglasses that I’d filled from a bottle of Banfi Brunello, one of three Tuscan reds I’d bought in Locust Valley after my Oyster Bay adventure with Anthony. I’d also picked up some cheese and crackers at a food shop and a plastic tray of pre-cut vegetables. I stuck to the Brie.
Elizabeth dipped a carrot and said to me, “You should have some vegetables.”
“Vegetables are a choking hazard.”
She smiled, nibbled at the carrot, then sipped her wine.
We were both tired, and a little sweaty and dusty from the trips to the basement and the attic, and we needed a shower.
She said to me, “I made a seven-thirty reservation at The Creek. Is that all right?”
I informed her, “I think I’m persona non grata there.”
“Really? Why . . . ? Oh . . . I guess when Susan . . .”
I finished her sentence: “. . . shot her Mafia lover.” I smiled and added, “They’re very stuffy there.”
Elizabeth forced a smile, then informed me, “Actually, Susan has rejoined the club. We had lunch there. So maybe it’s not a problem. But we can go to a restaurant.”
I finished my wine and poured another. So let me get this straight—I had been on thin ice at The Creek because I’d brought Mr. Frank Bellarosa, a Mafia gentleman, and his gaudily dressed wife, Anna, to the club for dinner; but it was Susan’s murder of said Mafia gentleman that actually got us booted. And now, Susan Stanhope Sutter—Stanhope is the operative word here—had the nerve to apply for membership and was readmitted. Meanwhile, if I reapplied, I’m sure I’d discover that I was still blackballed.
Nevertheless, I said, “The Creek is fine if you don’t mind a disciplinary letter to you from the Board of Governors.”
She thought about that, smiled, and replied, “That could be fun.”
As I refilled her glass, I also thought about running into everyone I used to know there, including Susan. But what the hell. It
could
be fun.
Elizabeth suggested, “Or we could stay here.”
I looked at her in the dim light, and as I said, I’m not good at reading a woman’s signals, but Elizabeth’s signal was loud and clear. I replied, “Let’s think about that.”
“Thinking is not what we want to do.”
I nodded, then changed the subject. “I have something for you.” I stood, went into the dining room, and found Susan’s photographs of the Allards.
I knelt beside Elizabeth’s chair and said, “Susan took most of these, and I want you to have them, though I’d like to make a few copies for myself.”
She took the stack of photos and went through them, making appropriate remarks about each one, such as, “I can’t believe how many times we were all together . . . I barely remember these . . . Oh, look, here’s my college graduation . . . and there’s you, John, with your arm around me and Dad . . . oh, God, was I a dork, or what?”
“No, you were not. I’ll take a copy of that one.”
“No, no.”
“You look great with straight black hair.”
“Oh my God—what was I thinking?”
We came across a posed photograph taken on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall, occasion unknown or forgotten. Standing in the photo is Ethel, still attractive in late middle age, and George, his hair still brown, and Augustus Stanhope, late into his dotage, sitting in a rocker with a blanket on his lap. Also, on his lap is a girl of about six or seven, and I realized it was Elizabeth.
She joked, “That’s not me.”
“It looks like you.”
She stared at the photograph, then said, “My mother took care of him before they had to hire around-the-clock nurses.” Elizabeth put the photo on the table with the others and added, “Mom was very fond of him.”
I replied, “He was a gentleman.” I added, of course, “Very unlike his son.”
We dropped that subject and continued on through the stack of photos.
Elizabeth commented at one point, “I can’t believe how many of these people are dead.”
I nodded.
She asked me, “Were you happy then?”
“I was. But I didn’t always know it. How about you?”
“I think I was happy.” She changed the subject. “Oh, here are Edward and Carolyn. They’re so cute.”
And so we continued through the photographic time trip, both of us, I think, realizing how much our lives had intersected, and yet how little we knew each other.
Because Susan had taken most of these pictures, she wasn’t in many of them, but we came across a photo of Susan and Elizabeth together, taken at the Stanhope annual Christmas party in the mansion. Elizabeth stared at it and said, “She is a beautiful woman.”
I didn’t comment.
Elizabeth continued, “She was very nice at lunch.”
I had no intention of asking about the lunch, so I stood and poured the remainder of the wine into our glasses.
Elizabeth finished with the photos and said, “I’ll have them all copied for you.”
“Thank you.”
She sat silently for a while, sipping her wine, then informed me, “I’ve heard that . . . Bellarosa’s son has moved into one of the Alhambra houses.”
I nodded.
She remained silent again, then asked me, “Do you think . . . ? I mean, could that be a problem for Susan?”
I asked, “What did Susan think?”
Elizabeth glanced at me, then replied, “She didn’t think so,” then added, “She seemed not at all concerned.”
“Good.”
“But . . . well, I would be.”
I didn’t reply and opened the second bottle of Tuscan red, a Cabreo Il Borgo, and we sat silently, drinking wine and getting a little tipsy.
We seemed to have run out of things to talk about; or, to put it another way, someone needed to address the subject of sex or supper. Elizabeth had already broached that subject, and I’d let it pass, but she tried another approach and announced, “I’m too drunk to drive.” She asked, “Can you drive?”
“No.”
“Then let’s stay here.”
I could, of course, call a taxi for her, and that’s what a real gentleman would do—or a limp-dicked, half-wit poor excuse of a man. So I said, “Let’s stay here.”
“That’s a good idea.” She finished her wine, stood, and said, “I need to shower.”
I, too, stood and watched her walk, a little unsteadily, into the foyer.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow. “Dear Ms. Post—”
“Dear COLI, Just fuck her already.”
“Right.” I moved toward the foyer, then hesitated. I seemed to recall that I’d already decided that Elizabeth was emotionally distraught and vulnerable, and I should not take advantage of that. On a more selfish level, I didn’t want to complicate my life at this time. And Elizabeth Allard Corbet would be a major complication.
On the other hand . . . I mean, this was
her
idea.
My head said no, my heart said maybe, and my dick was pointing toward the staircase. Dick wins every time.
But first, I uncorked the third bottle of wine, took the two glasses, and went to the foot of the stairs, where I heard a door close on the second floor.
I made my way up the steps to the small hallway. The bathroom was straight ahead, her mother’s room was to the left, and my room—her old room—was to the right. All three doors were closed, so I opened mine and saw she wasn’t there. I set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand. I could now hear the shower running in the bathroom.
I’ve been here before, on the outside of a closed bathroom door while the lady inside was showering, and I had no clear, verbal invitation to share the shower. “Dear Ms. Post—”
“Hey, stupid, see if the door is unlocked.”
“Right.” I went back to the bathroom door and gently tried the knob. Locked.
I went back to my bedroom, leaving the door open, and I poured two glasses of wine and sat in the armchair.
The shower stopped. I opened a copy of
Time
magazine, sipped my wine, and read.
A few minutes later, while I was reading a fascinating article about something or other, I heard the bathroom door open, and Elizabeth poked her head through my door, wrapped in a large bath towel, and drying her hair with another towel. She said to me, “Shower’s free.”
“Good.” I stood and asked, “Feel better?”
“Terrific.” Then she turned and walked into her mother’s room and closed the door. I could hear the hair dryer running.
First-time sex is like a first dance. Who’s leading whom? Am I dancing too close, or too far? Do I need a shower? Yes.
I went into the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked, stripped and threw my clothes in the corner on top of hers, then got in the shower, still not absolutely certain where this was going.
After I finished, I dried off with the last towel, wrapped it around my waist, and exited into the hallway. Her bedroom door was still closed, but it was quiet in there. I entered my room and found her in my chair, her legs crossed, sipping wine, reading my magazine, and wearing my Yale Crew T-shirt, and not much else, except a little makeup.
I said, “That shirt looks good on you.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
I think I knew where this was going.
I took my wine, sat on the bed opposite her chair, and we clinked glasses and sipped without talking.
She looked around at the small room, the old furniture, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, and the sun-bleached drapes, then said, “I spent most of my first twenty-one years here.”
I didn’t respond.
“I always came home on school breaks,” she continued, and I could hear that her voice was a little tired and slurred. “It always felt like home . . . it was always here . . . and now, it’s time to move on.”
I nodded.
She announced, “I’d like to sleep here tonight.”
“Of course.”
She stretched out her legs and put her feet on my lap. She said, “My feet are sore from all that moving.”
I put down my wine and rubbed her feet.
She put her head back, closed her eyes and murmured, “Oooh . . . that feels sooo good.”
Her T-shirt—my T-shirt—had ridden north, and I could see that the carpet matched the drapes.
I’ve been here before, too, and I never felt comfortable dipping my pen in a client’s inkwell. But Elizabeth was also a social acquaintance, and not really a client, and . . . well, the line was already crossed. So . . . I mean, not to proceed at this point would be rude.